


She Was a Sk8r Beau

by Torchiclove



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Smoking, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-30 17:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13956378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torchiclove/pseuds/Torchiclove
Summary: Every day, six teenagers and a tired college student walk into a Wildemount high school. Among them is Beauregard, with a disrespect for the rules and those who make them, well on her way to burning herself out. They don't know each other, yet.Until, one day, they do.





	1. Chapter 1

The morning doesn’t sit well with Beauregard, it never has; her mind is fuzzy, a haze of thoughts that refuses to cohere into meaning. She didn’t have time for coffee or sugar or a shot of whiskey, so she’s stuck being a zombie until ten o’clock rolls around.

She puts clothes on without even realizing what she’s wearing. She has a closet full of shit she never wears and a dresser drawer full of harem pants and shirts that she randomly pulls from every morning. Today? A blue-grey pair of pants and a shirt short enough to (just barely) show off her midriff. Sneakers instead of boots, hair tied into its usual topknot. Perfect.

It’s about halfway to school when Beau remembers that there’s something called a dress code, and about ten minutes into 1st period when she starts caring. Not of her own volition, of course, but because Mr. McCauly has an obsession with it and seems delighted at the opportunity to get her in trouble.

“Beauregard,” he starts, of _course_ using her full name, because ‘just call me Beau’ falls on deaf ears every time, “You know that’s not appropriate school wear.” She _swears_ she can see the edge of a grin curling across his face.

She throws her head back and sighs loudly, earning a chuckle from the back of the room. “Do you have to do this today?”

“You can learn to follow the dress code, or you can go to the office and sit in ISS,” he offers snidely. 

Beau stands up, making sure her desk makes as much noise as possible, and grabs her stuff before striding towards the door without looking back.

The TA is there, some poor, quiet college kid stuck dealing with all the riff-raff. Beau’s spoken to him maybe once, and he seemed decent enough. His name might be Caleb? He stops her on her way out, puts a hand out to clasp her shoulder but stops short when she shies away with a wary glance.

“I have a spare jacket you could borrow,” he says, pulling a crumpled grey ball from his bag. Beau weighs the options in her head. The office would call her parents, and they were already pretty pissed at her. She takes the jacket and shrugs it over her shoulders. 

“Thanks,” she huffs harshly, but feels a little bad when she sees the small, soft smile on his face. He’s just trying to be nice, unbelievable as that is. She cracks a grin back at him, but can tell it comes off as facetious. 

Mr. McCauly doesn’t bother to hide his glare when she returns to her seat, and Beau can’t help but smile at that. 

Class goes by uneventfully, mostly because she’s half asleep and couldn’t give two shits about Wildemount’s greatest literary achievements. She dozes while McCauly lectures, coming back to consciousness a couple minutes before the bell. 

It’s not like she’s missing much by sleeping through class, really—just freeing herself from hearing her teacher’s vaguely elitist literary bullshit. Waxing poetic about what culture _really_ meant, decrying modern garbage, all interspersed with snippets of what they were actually supposed to be learning about, a novel that Beau had not and would not read.

The bell rings, announcements are made, and Beau drags herself to her next class. She passes this one much like the last, watching her teacher babble about chemistry while she stares blankly into the distance. 

She always claims to herself that’s she’ll be awake by ten, but that’s _always_ a lie, because she’s tired and zoned out until noon. It’s 5th period before she even tries to pay attention to anything going on, halfway through mythology. She has a half-assed page of notes about long forgotten heroes, stories trailing off into nothing as she got bored and gave up writing them down. It's a class that's interesting in waves, and easy to pass, because everyone already knows the stories. 

The teacher is enthusiastic enough, and not a hardass at all. Beau knows the people in the class vaguely, the way you learn to know people who you’ve been in school with for twelve years in a small town. She wouldn’t consider herself friends with any of them, per say, and she hates about half of them. Hell, they probably hate her too, and she can’t blame them. 

There’s a tiefling kid that showed up two years ago and she gets the feeling he absolutely detests her. No real reason, she thinks, but it’s kinda fun to be antagonistic right back. He’s a troublemaker, and nobody really knows where he’s from. Always hanging around a tall, pale girl that everyone’s kind of afraid of. They’re...obviously not related, but they showed up together, and seem inseparable. 

The bell rings for lunch, and it’s a relief to be out of class, but the cafeteria isn’t that much better. Beau has a place to sit, conversations to join in with people she’s acquainted with. They’re all assholes, but her kind of assholes—the ones that have your back, the ones that do it for a reason. Though she doubts any of them would put their necks out for her in particular.

She takes more care than usual not to drop anything on the jacket, because that Caleb guy already looks disheveled as hell and she figures the last thing he needs are stains to accompany the wrinkles on all his clothes. It’s a mostly uneventful thirty minutes, but she does catch something interesting out of the corner of her eye. 

There’s a blue tiefling sitting cross-legged on the ground surrounded by a gaggle of eager freshmen, dealing out a hand of playing cards. One of them stands out from the rest—much smaller, skin almost completely covered from head to toe, and upon closer inspection, clearly a goblin.

You don't see _that_ everyday. Beau faintly remembers hearing about a goblin student, apparently trouble from the first day. Good on her, though she could only guess how much of it was true and how much was hearsay and racism. 

Beau watches the tiefling covertly switch one of her cards out while the freshmen are distracted, and can't help but huff out a laugh. The tiefling wins the hand, of course, but things get even more interesting when Beau just _barely_ catches the goblin snatch the winnings out of the tiefling’s pocket as everyone turns to leave. 

So maybe she is trouble. But hey, who’s to judge?

The bell rings and Beau zones back into her usual school-time haze. There’s nothing of dire import that she could possibly miss in weight training. She barely lifts weights and more often dicks around and punches shit. Plus, the computer science class she’s stuck in for 7th period is a joke. It passes uneventfully, a flash of information and assignments she’ll forget instantly.

She can always take the bus, but that’s fucking drag, so Beau usually opts to ride her skateboard to and from school. It’s not a long distance, and it gives her the excuse to get home a little later, which she’d give her life for. 

Not that her parents ever _took_ her excuses, so it really doesn't matter if she has them. Beau pulls her board out of her locker and slings her backpack over her shoulder. She pushes her way through the hall, turning towards the exit by the gym.

She spots the TA guy walking briskly down the hallway, a book under one shoulder, and remembers with a start that she still has his jacket. 

“Hey, man!” She calls, and he looks genuinely bewildered as she trots up to him. Beau shrugs the jacket off and hands it to him, making a note to lower her voice, “Thanks for the jacket. See ya.”

He murmurs something in response that sounds a little like “You’re welcome,” but he’s so soft-spoken it barely registers. He's got that deer in the headlights look in his eyes, like she's gonna bite him. Beau turns and makes her way back to the door without another word, hopping onto her board as soon as she reaches the pavement. 

She rides past the bus ramp and behind the gym, and those two assholes from 5th period are there. The big tall one (Yasha?) is leaning against the building while the tiefling (Mollysomething) smokes a cigarette. Molly catches her eye and sneers at her before tossing the cigarette to the ground and turning around with a flourish. She tries to return the look but he’s too quick, and she’s left narrowing her eyes at nothing.

Yasha gives her a lingering glance and, in the distance, Beau thinks she can see the corner of her mouth turn up into a faint grin before she slowly turns to follow Molly. Beau drops the grimace and stares, a little stunned, at the retreating figures before she smacks into the wall.

Her brain is a litany of _shit, shit, fuck,_ as she topples off her board and slams into the ground, right onto her shoulder, and she can tell it’s gonna bruise like hell. The two in the distance seem not to have noticed, still walking away steadily, and at least that’s something. 

It doesn’t dismiss the fact that she’s seeing red, hissing in breaths between her teeth to keep from punching the wall. She throws up a middle finger towards Molly’s back in the distance, which he of course doesn't see, and it only pisses her off more.

She needs to get out, she needs a drink, she needs to stay _far_ away from her parents for as long as possible. Beau puts on a grimace and turns in the opposite direction of her house. It’s gonna be a long night. 

 

Beau comes home late. She’s just a little tipsy, nothing much, a few drinks by herself in a shitty parking lot. She could still ride her board home through the 1am darkness, backlit by flickering streetlights. 

She opens the door quietly, a practiced art, taking note of all the usual places the floor creaks and groans as she tiptoes across the foyer. It’s dark and eerily still, the light from the moon and stars blocked by heavy curtains. Beau makes a quick and quiet beeline for the stairs.

She gets halfway across the room before the lights flick on, harsh and bright. _Shit._

Her dad is standing by the light switch, arms crossed, face taut. Her mother is in a chair beside him with her thin lips pursed together. They have the same expression they always have when this happens—disappointed, unsurprised, and secretly delighted. 

Beau narrows her eyes and hunches her shoulders defeatedly, caught between trying to garner sympathy or fight like hell. She knows she’ll choose the latter under pressure every time, even though it’ll only make it worse. She takes another step towards the stairs.

“Beauregard, what are you doing home so late?” Her dad asks, voice level, threatening. He stares at her with a familiar coldness and starts to slowly close the distance between them.

“I was just out with a few friends–”

“ _What_ friends?” He had her there; Beau doesn’t have a friend to speak of. She has a few fabricated ones, though, that she keeps in the back of her head for excuses.

“Look, one of the wheels fell off Reggie’s board and I was helping him fix it, all right?” She quickly turns towards the stairs and darts forward, but her dad grabs her wrist before she can make it a step.

It sends a shiver down her spin. Her skin _crawls_ , and she instinctively tries to yank away. _Tries_. Her dad’s grip is strong, and he forcibly twists her arm so that her shoulder is facing him.

“Where is this bruise from?” He hisses through his teeth. His voice is ice-cold but his eyes are like fire, and Beau has to twist her face into a grimace to hide the fear.

“Beauregard!” Her mom says sharply, standing up and walking over with a righteous fury, “Have you been getting in fights? Again?”

Beau pulls her wrist from her father’s grip, stopping just short of saying something she’d regret. “No. I fell.”

“Why am I supposed to believe–”

“If I got in a fight my _face_ would be bruised, not my arm,” Beau spits. She pulls up the side of her shirt to show a matching purple splotch creeping up from her hip. “Look. All on one side. Fell off my board.”

Her dad narrows his eyes and cocks his head, leaning in and gripping her shoulder, and it stings as his fingers dig into the bruised skin.

“You smell like alcohol,” he says simply, and Beau feels like a cornered animal. 

She glares, tries to shake off any of the haze left in her mind from the cheap beer. “Is there anything else I did that I should know about? Go ahead! I already know I’m the fucking worst–”

“Watch your mouth!” Her mom hisses reflexively, as if it would stop her. There’s a brief, tense stalemate as all three of them wait for the other to move, wait for the spark to ignite.

“We’ll talk about your punishment in the morning,” her dad sighs, letting go of her shoulder with a slight shove. Beau waits for a moment, glaring, and he turns to walk away. She stands, frozen, by the stairway and watches him leave. He flicks off the light on his way out.

“Fuck you!” She shouts into the darkness, voice cracking slightly, and there’s no response. She scampers up the stairs and slams the door to her room, seething, wishing there was a fight to get into, ‘cause she needs to _hit something_.

She lets out a shaky breath and bites her lip, back against the door. She slides down until she’s sitting on the floor, and the jolt of energy she felt just a moment before is gone, leaving her exhausted, sitting on the ground in the dark.

Beau feels the sting of frustrated tears in the corner of her eye, and her shoulder hurts where she can still feel her dad’s fingers digging into the bruised skin. She lets her head thump against the wood with a dull thud, and she doesn’t cry. She kicks off her shoes and climbs into bed without changing clothes. They’ll forget about it in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Beau has her parents’ morning routine mapped out with pinpoint accuracy. If she wakes up early enough, she can take a shower and get dressed, hide in her room for a while, skip breakfast, and sneak out through the back door while her dad makes his coffee. 

They couldn’t punish her if they couldn’t find her, and the longer they didn’t see her, the more they’d simmer down. Coming home late and smelling like alcohol is not the worst thing she’s done, not even this month—they should be glad. 

The last time they were really, truly mad at her was when she got trashed and beat some asshole up, but he _deserved_ it. That was two months ago, and she’s still on thin ice at all times. 

She’s kind of always grounded, but the word has no meaning. It doesn’t stop her from sneaking out whenever she feels like it. She doesn’t have much to take away besides her phone and her board, but she needs both of those to be a functioning person, so they’re never gone for long. Really, the only punishment is the yelling.

Her dad knows this, he must, because he does it all the time. He relishes in it, the opportunity to chew her out, to start off calm and crescendo to terrifying heights. She feels the skin on her arm crawling with the memory of his fingers digging into her shoulder, shivers to try to shake it from her mind.

It’s five am and Beau darts quietly from her room to the upstairs bathroom, careful not to make a peep. She has a bundle of clothes (black harem pants and an appropriately long t-shirt) tucked under her arm. She makes it to the end of the hallway successfully and quietly slides the door open, taking care to muffle the sound of it shutting.

Showers like this have to be taken quickly, and Beau is expert at that. She gets right to shampooing her hair, too-hot water rushing over her body in a way that is uncomfortably pleasant. She turns to the side to let the heat settle into the bruises, ugly purple blotches across her left shoulder and hip.

She’s in and out in just over five minutes—maybe not scrubbed as clean as she would’ve liked, but she takes what she can get. She dries off as best she can and puts on the clothes she brought, then slips quietly back to her room. 

She has an hour or so to sit in the darkness and wait, listening to the sounds of her parents milling around as they wake up. She hears her dad’s footsteps (heavy and deliberate) disappearing towards the downstairs bathroom. It’s just past 6am, two full hours until 1st period starts. Beau has to debate going to school early and sitting around in the cafeteria as she waits for class to start or heightening the risk of seeing her parents.

It’s mostly her dad she’s scared of running into. Her mom would just give her glares and empty threats, but her dad’s the one who really made her life hell. It wasn’t because her mom liked her more, or was merciful at all, she just didn’t have it in her. She didn’t have the zest for superiority.

Beau lays, head against her pillow, staring at the dark ceiling, and falls back asleep.

 

She shoots up, eyes bleary, scrambling to find her phone. It’s not dark anymore; there’s soft sunlight streaming into the room through parted curtains. She finds her phone within a few moments, squinting as it brightly flashes the time, almost half past 10.

_Fuck._

Change of plans. Dad’s already at work, mom shouldn’t be in any of the hallways Beau has to go through. The school would call home when she showed up late. They’d call home if she didn’t go at all. She grabs her board and her bag and tiptoes down the stairs, towards the front door.

She listens for a moment, and the first floor of the house is dead silent. There’s no way she’ll make it to school before 3rd period ends, so she has a minute, and she peeks her head into the kitchen. 

There’s almost always an open bottle of wine around somewhere, because the winery is successful and her dad’s a snooty connoisseur. Beau fucking hates wine, but it gets the job done. After a second of rooting around she finds a bottle and takes a couple long gulps. It’s dark red and bitter, the same fare as any of the other shit he brings home. Hell, she hopes it’s something expensive. 

Beau considers heading back upstairs to raid the half-empty bottle of whiskey hidden under her mattress, but that’s for emergencies only. She heads out the front door and down the street.

It should be a fifteen minute ride, but she’s taking her time, enjoying the sights, trying to wait until economics is over so she can skip straight into 4th period. It’s algebra, the least hellish of the maths, but still pretty fucking bad. 

Beau skates through downtown, past the diner, florist, and the small-town mom and pop stores. She’s buzzed enough to feel loose, but not unsteady. School approaches and the high of the ride wears off. She hops off, tipping the board up into her hand before slinking through a side door.

The halls are clear for about a minute before the silence is shattered by the bell and students pour into the hallways, loud and obnoxious. Beau ducks into the crowd and finds her way to her locker, shoving her board in. If she can avoid the administration long enough, they’ll probably forget to give her detention. She turns to scurry down the hall, and she almost runs face-first into Mr. McCauly. 

“Where were you during class this morning?” He asks, wearing a serious expression that contrasted the vicious satisfaction in his eyes.

_Shit._

 

Yasha has always been able to tell when Molly starts itching for trouble, like a sixth sense. They sit halfway across the room from each other in humanities and Yasha gets the vibe. She glances over at Mollymauk and sees those red eyes trained on her, mouth turned up into a self-satisfied half-grin, and she knows he has something planned.

The class can’t go by fast enough; it’s boring as shit. The teacher, Mrs. Bostwick, is a short woman with a dry, reedy voice. She’s nice enough, if a little unenthused, but everyone’s guilty of that. It’s not a class that people who are serious about school take and everyone knows it.

Molly’s quietly shuffling his tarot cards on his desk, winking at a few of the students that look his way when they hear the soft rustling. A pair of eyes rests on his longer than the others and he pulls two cards and holds them up. Yasha can’t see them from this angle, but the guy’s fairly attractive, so she can guess what they might be. 

Molly smiles, exposing sharp canines, and the guy blushes. Yasha rolls her eyes and looks away; she’s watched this enough times to know that it’ll go nowhere.

“Mollymauk. Cards on my desk,” Mrs. Bostwick sharply cuts in, breaking the comfortable monotony of her usual tone.

“Oh, come on, whatever for?” Molly asks innocently, slipping the two cards back into the stack and returning them to a small cloth pouch. 

“You’re distracting the class,” she drones, narrowing her eyes, “And those _cards_ are not appropriate for school, they’re the tools of devils.”

Yasha grins, an angry, malicious grin. She can feel the tension in the room shoot up as Molly raises an eyebrow and cocks his horned head to the side. “Really–”

He’s cut off by the sound of the TA—always so quiet and unintrusive—standing up at the side of the room. Everybody turns, fascinated, to look at the man in the wrinkled clothes, with his unkempt ginger hair that seemed so unsuited for a classroom.

“Those cards are just playthings,” he says, and his quiet voice sounds strangely commanding. There’s an unmistakable edge of earnestness to it. “With all due respect, let him keep them. He’s not hurting anybody.”

She side-eyes him for a moment before stepping down and returning to lecturing. The tension releases. Yasha looks at the TA—fidgeting with the edge of paperback, tapping the fingers from his other hand lightly against the desk. She’s taken notice of him these past few days, and is gaining a wary respect for him.

The bell finally, graciously, rings and Yasha makes a beeline to Molly, who’s practically buzzing with excitement. 

“You still have those keys?” He asks, and Yasha likes where this is going.

“Course. Where we headed?”

“Teacher’s lounge,” Molly says, and he hurries out the door. Yasha’s quick to follow.

Molly ducks and weaves through the hallways and it’s not hard, because most of the kids give him a wide berth. He’s intimidating enough with the horns and the solid red eyes, but he also has Yasha striding behind him. 

She’s going a little slower, taking in the crowd, looking for people who are watching them. Nobody’s eyes linger longer than they should.

She does catch something interesting, though. The girl with the undercut was missing from 1st period today, and there she is being escorted office-ward by their crabby lit teacher. She looks pissed.

Yasha catches up to Molly, a few feet ahead of her. “Looks like skater girl’s in trouble,” she says cocking her head towards Mr. McCauly.

Molly spares them a glance and grins wide. “Good, she deserves it.”

Yasha doesn’t really understand Molly’s distaste for her. Well, she does, in a way—skater girl’s got rich parents and a bad attitude. For all they know, she’s a spoiled brat, but the thing is, they _don’t_ know. Yasha’s never talked to her, and Molly’s only passed a few snide comments. Yasha’s seen her get in a trouble a pretty hefty amount in just the last two months, mostly for mouthing off, skipping class, or breaking dress code. 

Most of it really is the hallmark of a rich, rebellious brat, but there’s something that piques her interest. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes. Maybe it’s the pretty face.

“Yasha,” Molly chirps, and she stops to find she’s walked a few steps past the teacher’s lounge, lost in thought. The hallways have mostly cleared by now, just a minute or so until the bell rings. They wait while the last few stragglers clear out.

Yasha pulls a ring of keys from her bag and twirls them on her finger. They’ve worked out what four of the six of them are for—one of which opens the teacher’s lounge. The door creaks open to the empty room and they slip in. 

Molly immediately takes the couch, lounging with his head resting on one arm and his feet dangling off the other end. Yasha surveys the room for a second and begins the process of breaking into the vending machine. Molly lights a cigarette. They share a glance, then a laugh, and wait to get caught. 

It takes about twenty minutes. A teacher neither of them know quietly slips into the lounge. He looks tired and a little sad, like any middle-aged man tasked with dealing with Wildemount’s youth would. He drags his eyes up from their natural resting spot on the floor in front of his feet, and his mouth hangs open a little. 

Molly grins wickedly and puts out his cigarette (he’d pulled out another after finishing the first) by shoving it into the cushion, leaving a circular burn. Yasha pauses to shove the remaining bags of chips she’s raided into her bag before giving the teacher a cold, amused once-over.

“Detention,” he says weakly, unable to muster the energy to be angry.

Yasha gives Molly a knowing grin. “Well,” he drawls sarcastically, raising his eyebrows in a spiteful glare, “Shit.”

 

Nott is kind of, sort of, used to being in trouble. It’s something that seems to come naturally, at least here. She gets in trouble for a lot of things that she doesn’t understand, and doesn’t necessarily care to, but nothing that bad comes of it.

She only has a problem when they catch her stealing, because they take her things. And when they suspend her, because then she’s not allowed to come to school and eat. But the rest is just a nuisance. The in-school suspension and detention is actually nice. 

So, Nott doesn’t worry when she hears her name get called over the intercom to report to the assistant principal’s office. She doesn’t know what she’s done, exactly, but a few things come to mind. This morning she swiped a veritable hoard of pop-tarts from the breakfast cart, but they usually don’t care about that. They’re more concerned when she takes things from classrooms and students, even though they’re far less valuable than pop-tarts. 

Nott slips into the office quietly, wide yellow eyes immediately scanning the room. There’s a shiny paperweight with a swirling blue and green pattern. The assistant principal is wearing a class ring inset with a purple stone. And there’s somebody else in there with her.

Nott actually knows her, which is a rarity. She’s the blue-skinned tiefling she met just yesterday, playing cards in the cafeteria. Nott remembers that she stole the money out of her pocket, and her eyes widen in fear. 

“Do you know why we called you up here?” The assistant principal, Mr. Argrove, drawls in his bored monotone. 

“No, silly! Then we wouldn’t have to come!” The tiefling, who Nott remembers as Jester, says cheerily. She has a vaguely foreign accent, though Nott doesn’t know enough to place it.

Argrove sighs deeply, eyes half-lidded. He smells like coffee and the stench of cigarettes that never really comes out, no matter how long it’s been since the last one. “If you look in the student handbook, gambling is strictly prohibited under–”

“Gambling?” Jester asks, cocking her head, “I haven’t done any gambling?”

He seems taken aback for a moment, but continues, “You were caught gambling in the cafeteria yesterday with a group of students. Multiple administrators saw you.”

“Where are they?” Jester asks, confused.

“Who?”

“The students I was gambling with?”

“Isn’t this young lady one of them?” Argrove asks, tentatively gesturing towards Nott, who’s been completely silent.

“Yes,” Nott squeaks, ears laying flat against the side of her skull. Compliance usually makes them go easier on her, and she doesn’t care much about selling out the tiefling.

“Yes!” Jester confirms with a broad smile, “But where are the _rest_ of them? There were three other ones!”

“There, uh, weren’t any identifying features that the administrators saw, so we’re still looking for the other students,” Argrove stammers, and Nott watches with wonder. She’s never seen one of the adults like this; they always seemed so put together, talking down to her with the utmost authority. Argrove has always scared her, but this tiefling, Jester, is fearless.

Jester claps her hands together and bounces on her heels a little, grin still wide across her face. “What’s my identifying feature?” She asks giddily.

A little bit of the color drains from Argrove’s face and he looks away, finally mumbling, “You, um...Th-the punishment for gambling is a week of detention, starting today. Both of you.”

“But you didn’t tell me–”

“Now please return to class.”

Jester sticks her tongue out at him, but he’s already turned around to take a seat at his desk and doesn’t notice. Nott quickly slips out of the doorway, and Jester’s right behind her. They turn down the same hall, walking at about the same pace.

Well, Jester is less walking and more skipping. Nott stays silent for a few moments, then tugs on the side of her dress. Jester looks down, all big warm eyes and inviting smile.

“That was really cool,” Nott says sheepishly, glancing back in the direction of Mr. Argrove’s office. She looks up at Jester—she’s not a big tiefling, but still over a foot taller than Nott’s goblin form.

Jester smiles at her and gives her a (surprisingly forceful) pat on the shoulder. “I was just having fun!” She leans down, somehow whispering without lowering her voice at all, “You want to know a secret about Mr. Agrove?”

“Yeah?” Nott says, yellow eyes wide, expectant.

“He’s really super scared of you!”

“He is?”

“Yeah, can’t you tell? He was all prickly in there, like a big baby!” Jester turns dramatically towards a doorway, what Nott assumes must be her classroom. 

“I’m not scary, am I?” Nott asks quietly, eyes cast to the floor.

“No, silly! That’s why it’s funny!”

 

“–And then he _wouldn’t_ tell me! So rude!” Jester says with mock offense, stretching her neck as long as she could to rest her head on Fjord’s shoulder. Even sitting down, he’s much taller, but he slouches a little to make it easier. 

“Yeah, that’s real weird, Jester,” he says, cracking a smile. She’s exhausting but endearing, and he knows that she knew _exactly_ what she was doing in that office. 

“Oh! Do you know Nott?” She abandons her post on his shoulder to return to eating. She’s stolen an ungodly amount of little cups of canned peaches from people who didn’t want them, and Fjord watches with vague unease as she slurps them down like candy.

“No?”

“She’s the little goblin girl! She was there, too,” Jester says excitedly, and switches directly from peaches to pickles, which makes Fjord shudder with disgust.

“I think I’ve seen her around...She’s a freshman, right?” Fjord trails off quietly, glancing across the room as a loud noise catches his attention. It looks like there are two people arguing, one he recognizes from a few classes, and the other he’s never seen before. 

Jester continues babbling—something about Nott, something about the assistant principal—but Fjord is focused on the two, as the area around them gets quiet and crackles with tension. Shit. 

Fjord stands up as soon the one he remembers as Jonas throws the first punch. Everyone seems to be giving them a wide berth—they’re pretty burly guys, but they definitely don’t know how to fight. 

“Fjord, what are you doing?” Jester calls, but he’s already halfway to them. He breaks through the circle of people eagerly watching, a few of them recording on their phones with gleeful smiles. 

He grabs Jonas by the arm and tries to pull him away, which is a feat, because Jonas is _much_ stronger than him and would rather not be restrained. Fjord catches sight of Jester trailing behind him and sighs. He catches a hit on the shoulder as he hooks Jonas under the arms and twists away.

One of the administrators pushes through the circle of students, insistently muttering into her walkie-talkie. She takes in the situation for a second and grabs the other kid, and the two seem to realize after a few more seconds of struggling that it’s over. After another minute or so of waiting, the resource officer shows up, a portly guy with a well-kept mustache and a blank stare.

He takes the two guys away, leaving Fjord standing sheepishly as students start to disperse, a little disappointed. Jester trots up to him, rolling her eyes.

“Fjord, you’re weak a shit, why–”

She’s cut off by the administrator, a tall woman with severe features, who seems to hold the same tiredness in her eyes that everyone around this school did. “Since you felt the _need_ to involve yourself, you’ll have detention,” she says blandly, eyes narrowed.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I was just trying to–”

“You’re lucky you’re not getting suspended,” she sighs.

Fjord opens his mouth to protest but realizes how futile it is before he can think of anything. “Yes, ma’am,” he says quietly, turning back to his table. Jester sticks her tongue out at the woman when she turns away.

“Why are they always such dicks to you, Fjord, you’re so nice!” Jester asks, her usually bouncy tone tinged just slightly with annoyance.

Fjord sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Jester, you know why.”

Jester goes quiet for a few seconds. “Hey! Now we get to hang out after school!” She bumps him with her shoulder, grinning ear to ear.

He can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy, first update! The gang's all here!


	3. Chapter 3

Caleb pulls into the parking lot just in time for 6th period to start, fresh out of his friday class. Most of the classes her shadows are pretty mixed bags, but the last two of the day are only freshmen. There’s an added layer of stress to that because, well, _freshmen_ , but he also enjoys them immensely. 

He pushes into the room and looks for one student in particular. She’s not there yet, with a few minutes left on the bell. Caleb sidles over to the bookshelf and scoots one of the novels to the side, placing a chunk of pinkish-white quartz just behind it. It’s something cheap and shiny he’d picked up a little while after meeting Nott. 

Caleb noticed when Nott got in trouble for stealing, but he’d also noticed that it was rarely money, or even valuables. She steals food and trinkets, and it is no business of his to stop her. But a classroom is static, and once she’d cleaned it out of knick-knacks, he’d started leaving little things around for her.

He has a few bags of cheap crystal and some brightly colored candy that he picks up at the convenience store every week or so. He rarely sees her take it, but it’s always gone the next day. He’d caught her, once, carefully lifting a bag of skittles from its hiding place inside the bin of craft supplies, and he’d smiled and turned his head.

Nott walks in and he watches her scan the room, the same way she always does. Her eyes lock onto the quartz almost immediately. Her hand twitches slightly, and she makes her way to her seat.

“Hi Caleb,” she mutters as she passes him, and he thinks it’s quite sweet that she’s taken to greeting him. She’s done it ever since he started helping her out with her math problems in class. 

Caleb is endlessly curious about Nott, though he can’t bring himself to ask any prying questions. He realized, helping her with schoolwork, that she’s quite bright, but doesn’t have much of a foundation for her education. Caleb doesn’t know much about goblins and can only imagine what kind of schooling she had as a child, but he does not want to overstep his boundaries in asking. 

He’s expressed some concern to the administration—an insistence that perhaps she needs some extra help, just for a little while—but they dismissed it quickly. She’s managing to pass, somehow, so she must be fine. Though he’s never seen it for himself, Caleb gets the sinking feeling that she’s cheating her way through most of her classes.

So he helps where he can, when it’s appropriate, and he hopes it’s enough. 

6th period, Algebra One with about 25 freshmen, is a crucible, but today’s relatively calm. The volume is higher than Caleb would like, but it’s something he’s gotten used to, and he distracts himself by grading a stack of quiz papers. The results are a mixed bag—some 100s, an average of about 70, and a couple of grades in the 20s. Nott manages a 90, and Caleb’s proud to see the problems have actually been worked out on the side the way he showed her. 

The class period passes like that, a blur of numbers and red pen marks, and when the bell rings Caleb catches sight of Nott stuffing the piece of quartz into her pocket. He has no idea how she made it to the bookshelf and back without him noticing, but that’s no surprise. 

His 7th period is another class with Nott—World History. It’s notoriously rowdier, with a teacher that struggles to corral the freshmen and has a penchant for getting off topic in his lectures. It’s an arduous class, but Caleb makes it, though he can feel himself buzzing with anxiety afterwards. 

Finally, the bell rings, and he’s _itching_ to get home. He waves goodbye to Nott (who waves back), and gets his things together, but he’s stopped as the history teacher gets his attention.

“Mr. Widogast,” he starts, looking a little frazzled, “I’m supposed to be running detention today, but something’s come up, is there any way you can cover for me? It’s only half an hour.”

It’s the last thing Caleb wants to do. “Certainly, sir,” he says, “Which room is it in?”

He gets the directions, the keys to the room, and the instructions on locking up. He said it was a fairly small crowd, only six kids, that it shouldn’t be too bad. Caleb expects the worst. 

He settles in the desk ten minutes before detention officially starts, a book propped open, and watches the door. He’s surprised to see the first person that walks in is Nott, timid and cowering.

She seems to light up a little when she sees him, long tattered ears perking up from where they lay flat against the side of her head. She slides into a seat near the front of the room and puts her stuff down, wearing a grin that showed off sharp, shark-like teeth. 

“Hi, Caleb,” she says, a little shy, and he smiles softly. 

“Hello, Nott,” he replies with a small wave, and pauses a few moments. “What’re you in detention for?”

“Gambling.” 

“Oh,” Caleb says, and they’re both left to the awkward silence that follows.

The next students trickle in, and Caleb is surprised that he recognizes them, too. It’s Mollymauk and Yasha, two he’s vaguely familiar with but doesn’t know well. They take the seats closest to the back, huddled close and talking quietly. Nott keeps glancing furtively at Yasha, eyes wide with something between wonder, fear, and recognition. 

Two more familiar faces; Fjord, who Caleb had mistaken for a teacher his first week working as a TA, and Jester. Jester, who has nearly given him an aneurysm with her antics, and only seems to calm down whenever she’s in the process of eating something filled with sugar. He bites his lip and sighs, regretting his politeness in taking over detention.

The last one to walk in, scowl on her face and skateboard in hand, is Beauregard. She looks ready to murder someone, but when he eyes glance over Caleb the expression softens, just a little bit, to what he hopes is a wary respect. She takes the seat the farthest away from Molly and Yasha.

 

Beau is pissed about having detention. It’s _bullshit_ , McCauly must’ve been stalking her locker just waiting for her to show up to get her in trouble. He was too happy about it, oozing smugness as he marched her down to the office and filled out that stupid pink slip. 

She knows she’s scowling as soon as she walks in, but doesn’t really care. There’s nobody here she knows that well, but she is surprised to see Caleb sitting on the desk instead of one of the usual no-name teachers that get stuck with detention. She eases up on the harsh expression, just slightly, as her eyes pass over him. He looks tired.

She catches sight of Molly and Yasha in the corner and grabs the seat farthest away from them, in no mood to deal with Molly’s bullshit. He has no good reason for hating her, and yet he acts like he can’t fucking stand her. It’s a real tragedy that Yasha keeps such shitty company.

Beau recognizes the blue tiefling and the goblin from the cafeteria, though she doesn’t know their names. The half-orc looks familiar, maybe a football player? He certainly looks like one, with bulky arms and a letterman jacket in school colors—red, white, and gold. She wonders what he’s in here for, but she sees that he’s talking quietly with the blue tiefling and assumes he must be caught up in her shenanigans.

There’s a quiet tension to the room as she looks it over. Nobody’s supposed to talk during detention, but Beau glances at Caleb, buried in a book, and figures that he probably won’t care.

“Hey,” she says, loud enough to get everyone’s attention but clearly directed at the blue tiefling. She scoots a few seats closer, grabbing her board, leaving the rest of her stuff at the corner desk. 

The tiefling perks up, leaving the half-orc mid-sentence. “Hello!” She says brightly, wide smile flashing across her freckled face, “Who are you?”

“Beau,” she says, extending a hand. This is certainly a way to kill time, if any. “You?”

“My name is Jester!” The tiefling says, leaning her body against the side of the desk to grab Beau’s hand. It tips dangerously, and she seems unfazed while the half-orc next to her gets a worried look on his face. “Oh, and this is Fjord!”

“Nice to meet you, Beau,” Fjord says, and Beau’s a bit surprised by his accent. He’s got a soft, gentle drawl, a little different than anything she’s heard before. She notices, now that she’s closer, that the patches on the side of his jacket are for the graduating class of four years ago.

“So, what are you doing here?” She asks, sitting back in her desk and kicking her feet into one of the ones beside her.

“ _Apparently_ , you’re not allowed to gamble at school,” Jester says rolling her eyes. “That’s why Nott’s here too!”

The little goblin’s ears perk up at the sound of her name, and she peers over at them with owlish, yellow eyes. She swivels to face them, cowering a little bit, her head just clearing the top of the backrest. 

“Hello, Nott! How are you?” Jester asks loudly, and Beau catches Caleb glancing up from his book.

“I-I’m fine,” Nott murmurs quietly, in a voice that’s absolutely fascinating. It’s like a contained screech, grating but strangely endearing. She’s a tiny, ratty thing, worn clothes that hang off a stick-thin frame and eyes that dart around like she’s looking for a plan of escape. 

There’s a brief, awkward pause as Nott stares at them before Jester shatters the silence.

“So, what are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh, I, uh...I skipped class.” Beau realizes that, of all the detentions she’s had, this is probably the lamest story. To hell with first impressions.

“Boring! Fjord got in a fight!” Jester proclaims proudly, turning towards Fjord, who immediately puts his hand up to object.

“I broke up a fight,” he clarifies quickly, “They just...gave me detention for it anyway.”

Beau opens her mouth to sympathize because, hey, she’s been there, but she’s quickly interrupted by Molly’s annoying sing-song from the back of the room. “You’re all so boring,” he says, tilting his head backwards to get a good look at them, albeit upside-down. The way he’s draped himself across two desks looks uncomfortable, but he shows no sign of it, smiling devilishly.

Jester whips her head around, grin somehow growing brighter. Fjord and Beau both give him a wary glance—his intrigued, hers annoyed.

“What’re you doing here that’s so interesting?” Jester asks excitedly, her long blue tail thumping rhythmically against the side of the desk. It wasn’t wagging like a dog’s, more of a slow swishing back and forth, like a metronome. 

Molly’s smile widens, and Beau can’t help but feel that he looks malevolent. His eyes flick over each of their faces, and it’s almost grotesque—he has no pupils, but she can still tell they’re moving by the muscles and skin of the sockets twitching.

“Well,” he says, and he flips around in the desk in one fluid motion, turning to face them with his head right side up, “I’m not one to spill secrets, but if you get the chance to stop by the teacher’s lounge, you should _really_ check it out.”

Yasha nods in response, a faint smile curling at the edge of her lips. “It’s a real mess,” she offers, and Beau’s a bit caught off guard by the voice. It’s quiet, soft; she doesn’t think she’s ever heard Yasha talk before. She’s always been the stoic companion to the loud, obnoxious tiefling.

“–never been able to get in there!” Beau zones back in about halfway through Jester’s sentence, something incredulous about Molly’s shenanigans. 

Molly nods his head silently to Yasha, who reaches into her bag and pulls out a ring of keys. Jester’s eyes widen with delight, and it seems to catch Nott’s interest, too. And hell, Beau can’t help but admit that that’s fascinating.

“Where can you go with those?” She asks, locking eyes with Yasha, and is a little disappointed when it’s Molly that responds.

“Anywhere we need to,” he says, and she _swears_ his broad smile curls into a faint sneer as his eyes pass over her face. 

“So you don’t know?” Beau deadpans, narrowing her eyes. He seems like he’s bullshitting.

“Yeah,” Yasha says with a chuckle, separating they keys into a group of four and two, “These we know, these we don’t.”

Molly shoots Yasha a glare, but quickly returns to his personable expression, eyes locking on to Jester. “Anywhere you need to get to? We’ve got Argrove’s office, the janitor’s closet, the gym…” He trailed off expectantly, as if there were more.

Jester’s eyes go wide, and Fjord looks a little horrified. Beau can’t begin to imagine what she’s planning. Just as she looks like she’s about to take Molly up on his offer, she whips around and starts digging through her bag.

“You guys want any donuts?” She asks, pulling a slightly crushed box out, one that looks like it was taking up at least half the space in her backpack. She opens it to show 12 glazed donuts, seemingly fresh and undamaged.

“Why do you have–?” Beau starts, but she’s cut off by Molly making his way towards the box at record speed, shoving right in front of her. His long purple tail slaps across her arms on the way, and she can’t help but feel that it’s intentional.

Fjord clears his throat and glances towards the desk. “Jester.”

“Oh, yeah. Hey Caleb, you want one, man?” 

“Yeah, sure,” he says, barely above a whisper. He’s glancing owlishly at them over the top of his book, like he’s surprised they’ve acknowledged his existence. Jester takes it upon herself to bring him a donut while everyone else descends on the box.

Beau has to admit, they’re pretty good donuts. And she’s not one to say her heart can’t be won with food. Caleb puts down his novel, which is a shocker, and mumbles a hushed thank you. He can’t seem to hide his grin at the gesture, a soft smile that lights up his features.

After everyone grabs one, there’s five left in the box, and they watch with wonder and mild horror as Jester _inhales_ them. Fjord seems unfazed, still working on the first one. Nott eyes the empty box hungrily, carefully licking the remaining glaze from her fingers. 

“Do you just carry those around?” Beau asks, somewhere between Jester’s third and fourth donut.

“Yeah, duh?” She says, muffled slightly by a mouthful of pastry.

Molly seems thoroughly amused by the little blue tiefling, and he glances at Yasha briefly before pulling out a deck of cards.

Beau has seen Molly do a lot of readings in her short time acquainted with his existence, because he has the cards out _constantly_. In the hallway, in class, the cafeteria—she swears he’s always doing readings for some poor sucker. They’re obviously bullshit; Beau wouldn’t trust a word out of his mouth. 

He shuffles them ostentatiously, and Jester takes the bait immediately. 

“Can you tell my fortune?” She asks, tail perked up and held level with her head, the pointed tip slowly flicking back and forth. 

“Surely, for someone as generous as you,” Molly says, doing one last shuffle before presenting the deck with a flourish.

The cards are unlike any Beau has seen before; purple backs with an intricate design in gold sprawling across them, and beautiful artwork that doesn’t match the typical major arcana. It’s one of three or four decks Molly has, and definitely the most distinct. Jester pulls the topmost card.

Beau cranes her neck to look at it—Judgement, represented by the scarred face of a grey-skinned, battle-worn old woman clutching a quarterstaff. 

“Ah, Judgement,” Molly starts, grinning widely, “This is a card for new beginnings. You’re close to an awakening—or perhaps you’ve already had it?”

Jester claps her hands together excitedly, and Molly eats it up. “That’s so cool! Fjord, do you want one?”

“I’m not really superstitious,” Fjord murmurs, eyeing Molly suspiciously, “Thanks, though.”

“Anybody else?” Molly asks.

“I’ll pass,” Beau says dryly, still trying to catch him trying any shady business while shuffling the cards. He doesn’t look down at them at all, and his hands are moving too fast to find a pattern. In the background, Nott shakes her head.

“Sure,” Caleb says from the desk, and they all swivel their heads toward him in surprise. He doesn’t strike Beau as the superstitious type. His eyes are intense but amused, staring straight at Mollymauk.

Molly flourishes the cards once more, each one falling perfectly into place in his hands. “Come pick one.” 

Caleb stands up tentatively and makes his way over to them. It’s only a couple feet, but it feels like it takes forever. There’s an air of vague discomfort that hangs around Caleb, an awkwardness that clings to him. Still, Beau finds that she likes him—more than anyone else in the godforsaken place. He’s not an ass, at least.

Caleb’s hands shake slightly as he draws the card from the top of the deck and studies the picture, a woman with braided golden hair and crackling blue eyes, magical energy radiating from her palms. The Tower. 

The corner of Molly’s mouth turns up, and he plucks the card from Caleb’s finger. “The Tower, that’s one hell of an omen. You have an upheaval on the horizon.” He raises an eyebrow, tail flicking back and forth behind him.

Caleb cocks his head for a second, then smiles faintly. “I think you are full of shit,” he says in his demure lilt, and it takes everyone off guard.

Yasha tips her head back and laughs, soft and musical, nudging Molly’s shoulder hard enough that he almost tips out of the desk. He doesn’t lose the broad grin, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “I just interpret what the cards say,” he says with a shrug, the jewelry dangling from his horns jingling.

Caleb, seeming satisfied with himself, slides into the desk adjacent to Nott and rests his chin in his hands. Nott, tense throughout the whole interaction, visibly relaxes, though her eyes are still darting about. 

“We should get detention together more often, you guys are super fun!” Jester blurts out after the brief silence.

“Jester, I’d rather stay out–”

“Alright, _you_ don’t have to get detention, grumpy,” she grumbles, smacking Fjord on the side with her tail, “But the rest of you are super cool!”

“Thanks?” Beau mutters skeptically. She finds herself quite endeared to Jester, but she’s also tired as hell, really in need of a nap more than anything else.

Just as she’s zoning out, she’s snapped out of it by Caleb’s voice cutting through Jester’s monologue. “Hey, uh, you guys only have five minutes left, so if you just want to go…”

“After we were having so much fun?” Molly teases, but he stands up just as quick as Beau. Yasha follows suit, hovering over Molly’s shoulder like a bodyguard. 

They awkwardly file out the door in the same direction, staying in a group down the hallway with Caleb hanging back at the classroom to lock up. Beau catches a faint, near-whispered, “Bye, Caleb,” as Nott passes him on her way out.

“Me and Nott have detention for a week! Are you guys gonna be here to hang out?”

“You’re just in luck! Yasha and I are in for a week, too,” Molly says with a smile.

“What about you Beau?” Jester calls, as Beau’s fallen backward behind the group, carrying her board.

“Oh, I, uh, just had today,” she says, doing an awkward half-jog to catch up.

“We’re really lucky, then!” Molly exclaims with a dramatic swish of his tail, and he locks eyes with Beau. She glares back and gives a deep sigh.

“I’m sure we’ll see you before long,” Yasha says, glancing back at her with a coy half-grin, “You seem to find trouble.”

Beau opens her mouth to say something but gets caught in Yasha’s mismatched gaze, her eyes sparking with a faint amusement. There’s an unavoidable intensity to her, even in the most casual of glances. It’s a little creepy. It’s a little hot.

They disperse into their disparate groups as they reach the door—Yasha and Molly, Fjord and Jester, Nott mysteriously disappearing before Beau can catch sight of her, and Beau alone. Beau barely gets her foot on her board before she looks up and her blood runs cold.

She sees her dad’s car pulling up right outside the building, and she knows he knows exactly where detention’s held, exactly where she’d be and when. He must be fucking pissed to actually drive all the way out here, just so he could chew her out in the car where she has nowhere to run.

He steps out of the car, expressionless, tan skin taut over a clenched jawline. Beau glances behind her—Molly and Yasha fading into the distance, Fjord and Jester already gone.

“Beauregard, get in the car,” her dad says, infuriatingly calm.

“I’ve got my board with me, I can just ride home, I don’t see why–”

“Beauregard.” 

She takes a few steps towards him, slowly, like she’s approaching a wild animal. He opens the passenger side door, and a shiver runs down her spine. She won’t even have the safety of the backseat.

She pauses for a long moment, staring him down, and reaches for the handle to the back door. Her dad tenses, and she does not relent.

“ _Beauregard,_ ” he says through clenched teeth, and she instinctively jerks back when he grabs her arm. It’s useless against his vice-like grip, his thumb digging right into the bone, enough to hurt like hell but not to leave any marks. He loosens his grip after just a second, but it’s enough to get the point across.

Beau spends another second giving him a wary glance before she slips into the passenger seat and slams the door. Through the window, in the distance, she can see Molly and Yasha have stopped. They’re watching.

Beau makes brief eye contact with Molly, so short that she doesn’t even know if it registers, and she sees him look up at Yasha and nod. He gives her a look that Beau can’t begin to comprehend, and she frankly doesn’t care. They turn and walk away, and she bites her lip in anticipation for the worst. 

 

Molly watches the car speed off. It’s expensive, something fancy, the car of a man who’s rich but not rich enough. Yasha gives him a sidelong glance; she knows what he’s thinking.

“The bitch has a tragic backstory,” he mutters, bemused with an undercurrent of hard anger.

Yasha shrugs. “I like her,” she says, plain and simple, no explanation needed.

Molly rolls his eyes and pulls a cigarette from one of the many pockets on his flashy coat, cupping his hand against the wind to light it. “You would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I did the tarot reading a week or two before the shit with the spire happened! Interesting portent with that particular draw, lmao.


	4. Chapter 4

His grip on the steering wheel is tight, knuckles white, driving in swift, jerky movements that make Beau’s stomach turn. She stares pointedly out the window. The tension weighs heavily on her shoulders, and they slope downwards, collapsed like an animal to make herself as small as possible.

She waits, seconds turning into minutes of tortured silence. She spares a brief glance at her dad, stone-faced, clutching the wheel.

First mistake.

“Why were you in detention?” He asks. It’s cold and cruel, and he already knows the answer—he just wants her to say it.

“I was late.” Beau can’t take the bite out of her voice. Second mistake.

“Why were you late?”

“Slept in.”

“ _Why_ did you sleep in?” He separated every word precisely, malice dripping from each clipped syllable as he spat rhetorical questions at her.

“I was tired,” Beau snaps, head twisting away from the window to look him in the eye. Third mistake. He pushes just a little harder on the gas pedal, takes one hand off the wheel. 

He pauses a moment, waits for excuses, for begged forgiveness, and finds none. Beau is not a child anymore. “You were hungover,” he says plainly, a statement rather than a question.

“Yeah, dad, I was real hungover from all the shit I _didn’t_ drink–”

“Half the bottle I opened the other day is missing,” he continues, jaw clenched, like he isn't even listening.

“That’s not my problem! You know how much mom drinks when you’re not–”

“Beauregard!” He snaps and jerks the wheel around a turn, sending her sliding into the side of the door. He breathes deeply and says, quieter, “You’ll show some respect for your mother.”

“Stop blaming me for shit I didn’t do,” Beau grumbles. She can see her dad grit his teeth a little bit every time she swears, but he’s long since given up yelling at her for it. He goes quiet but remains tense, drawn like a bowstring. Beau knows that this is far from over.

The drive to the house isn’t long but it feels like an eternity. There’s no comfort in being home. There’s a tiny chance she’ll be able to make it to her room and lock to door before her dad rounds on her for a real bout of yelling, but it’s slim to none. It’s likely her mom is camped by the staircase, all tight pursed lips and disappointment.

Beau clutches her board to her side as she walks to the door, her dad following a few steps behind like an ominous cloud. She doesn’t look at him, tries to ignore that he’s even there, but it’s hard. Her skin crawls under that hateful gaze, with the knowledge that, like a powder keg, he could explode at any second. She’d already lit the fuse as soon as she’d made eye contact with him in the car. 

She sees it in her head like a movie. The low, insistent _hiss_ of the fuse burning as she turns the doorknob, the click far louder than it should be. _Hiss_ as she scans the foyer and finds no mother blocking the stairs, as she darts for the staircase with reckless abandon.

The hiss grows louder as the heavy footfalls grow quickly behind her, and it stops altogether as the sound of the explosion rumbles in the form of, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Beau pauses, and that’s a mistake. It means she heard him, means she’s stuck in this conversation. She’s not even halfway to the staircase yet, and there’s no way out but through. She turns to face him, sees him standing a few feet behind her with fists clenched and jaw tight.

His anger sits tightly in his chest, like a coiled spring. It winds, tighter and tighter, until it's released all at once, violent but predictable. Beau feels like she can see it, in his slowly flexing fingers and burning eyes, that tension on the brink of snapping. 

“We don’t have anything to talk about,” she says quietly, dismissively. 

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” He asks sharply. Beau keeps her mouth shut; she’s heard this one before.

“You’re not just testing my patience, Beauregard, you’re destroying your own life,” he says, and she instinctively recoils when he starts to step towards her. “I’ve given you _everything_ , and this is how you thank me?”

“You haven’t given me shit,” Beau spits, and it’s worth the look on his face, the appalled shock.

Shock twists so easily into fury, and the thunderous steps suggest that maybe it’s less worth it than it seemed. He’s uncomfortably close now, close enough to feel the anger radiating off his body in waves.

His eyes narrow, and so do Beau’s, matching shades of blue staring, a test of wills that would be impossible to win. His mouth opens and words tumble out, furious and meaningless. Beau stops listening somewhere between the part where she’s going to hell and the tirade about her lack of respect.

She’s silently trapped by the physical closeness. He’s within grabbing distance if she bolts, so she just listens to same speech as always, a broken record making a bulleted list of everything she’s ever done wrong, about her acute lack of redeeming qualities. He pauses when he catches her rolling her eyes.

“Don’t expect to keep getting away with everything,” he says, finally, darkly, and the tension snaps. Beau shrugs it off immediately as an empty threat, a common occurrence, but there’s a tickle of worry at the back of her head.

“I’ve never gotten away with anything,” she mutters, turning towards the staircase.

“Don’t expect the be allowed to leave the house any time soon, Beauregard!” Her dad calls after her as she scampers quickly up the stairs, holding her board close to her side. He continues, “And I’m driving you to school from now on!”

That really strikes a nerve, deep in her gut, but she swallows it and doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge any of it. He doesn’t really mean it, it’d be too much of an inconvenience.

She knows he actually means it when he says she can’t leave the house. She’s rarely allowed to, but it hasn’t stopped her yet. She knows exactly what he expects her to do: sneak out and get drunk. It’s tempting to fulfill.

She listens to the pattern of his footsteps, listens to him walking the perimeter of the house to every door. He’s setting the alarm to alert him whenever they’re opened, installed about a year back as Beau spiralled farther out of his control. The challenge is irresistable.

He changed to passcode the first time Beau figured it out, and she hasn’t had time to do it again, leaving few options. He’ll be waiting for the alarm to go off. The windows aren’t alarmed. 

Sneaking out through the window is the least dignified but most fun way of doing things, Beau reasons, and she’s up for a challenge any day. The second story window in her bedroom would be a feat, but it’d be the safest route. One of the first story windows would be an easier option, though she’d look like a real jackass climbing out the window and taking the foot drop into the neat row of shrubs lining the side of the house.

Being a jackass wins over the risk of spraining something. She sits in her room, smug, and waits.

Dinner’s at 5:30 on the dot. Beau hears her mom’s shrill voice calling from the kitchen, but she’s long given up on getting her to eat dinner with them. She grabs food out of the kitchen as her parents sit down at the too-large table in the dining room, chatting quietly and sipping wine. They must’ve emptied that bottle of red, which means they’ll open another. Beau thinks about it for a moment, but she’s not in the mood.

She eats quietly in her room, slipping the plate into the sink while her parents are still busy in the dining room. 

She planned, originally, to sneak out after it got dark, but she’s feeling a certain urge to see the city bathed in the orange-red light of sunset. The complicates things, of course, but nothing can stop her. 

It’s about 6:45 when she slips down the stairs, board in hand. Her dad’s in the study, downstairs, on the right side of the house. Her mom’s in their room, upstairs, right side. Beau makes her way quickly of quietly to the leftmost downstairs window, overlooking the side of the neighboring house across a lush green lawn. There’s nobody outside, not that she can see. It’s still light enough that anybody would be able to notice her climbing out the window. But hey, what the hell?

The windows are loud when they open, loud enough to be noticeable. Beau starts sliding it open, inch by inch, careful not to push too hard to minimize the noise. There’s no footsteps that come her way, no noticeable sign that anyone’s heard. The crack is big enough to slip through.

She grabs her board and tosses it out into the bushes and follows with her body, sliding slowly through as to not catch on the frame, not to knock the wood and cause an echo. Her feet dangle helplessly out the side and she falls the two feet, landing with a soft rustling of the bushes. She reaches up, stretching just a little to reach, and closes the window noiselessly. 

It’s a quick escape route from there; behind the house, avoiding detection from the right-side windows, down the empty street, taking a series of quick turns towards the parts of town her parents wouldn’t want her walking through alone. She’s fast on her skateboard, and the house is behind her in minutes. She takes the turn down an alley behind a street of small storefronts. 

The sun is setting now, dim light diffusing into soft reds and oranges against the slate grey of the buildings. The street is lined with them, concrete cubes painted up pretty in front but indistinguishable from behind. There’s a chill in the air, the promise of an even colder night once the sun is gone. It clings to Beau’s bare arms, almost enough to send a shiver down her spine. 

She kicks off on her board, the grinding of the wheels against asphalt like music to her ears. The blank buildings blend as the momentum carries her down the street. The world is like an abstract painting, the colors melting together into meaningless puddles. It’s nice. The illusion shatters as soon as she hits the end of the street and has to make a turn.

Beau knows how to get just about anywhere except where she wants to be. It’s a place she hasn’t figured out yet, and probably never will. She has only vague directions—away, not here, _anywhere_ but here. 

She coasts past a wall of storefronts, the kind of places she sees every day but has never stepped foot inside. A florist, painted up green and pink with an antique wood sign; a diner trying to hide its plainness with a coat of yellow paint and a burnt-out neon sign. She sees movement inside through the large glass pane that spans the front of the building. A familiar purple tiefling sets down a steaming plate for a family of four sitting at a booth near the window.

Beau slows down, and she catches Molly’s eye just as she rides past. She raises a middle finger at him, and she doesn’t get to see his response other than the spark of recognition signalling that her saw her. It’s satisfying.

And, to strengthen the coincidence, there’s the goblin.

 

Nott is hungry.

She’s scampering down the street with singular purpose, sticking to the waning shadows of the storefronts. She has her backpack slung over her shoulder, weathered canvas threatening to fray and tear, and another satchel hanging at her hip. Between the two of them, they hold nearly everything she has.

The backpack holds a smattering of school supplies, six pop-tarts, and most of Nott’s collections. The satchel holds her clothes, bobby pins fashioned into a lockpick, and all the money she’s managed to scrape together. She has $3.50 to her name, leftover from the ten bucks she’d swiped from Jester the other day. It’s not enough to do her any good.

She knows this area well; she frequents it. It’s not densely populated, and the storefronts don’t see much business. For the first time in weeks, Nott spots someone else. They’re cruising along on a skateboard, and she vaguely recognizes the face. It’s Beau, from school, a little scary but not a threat. Nott’s shoulders relax and she continues her way down the street without making eye contact, hoping to remain unnoticed. It doesn’t work. She catches Beau’s eyes glancing quizzically down at her, and both of them share a silent, awkward glance. Neither says anything. 

She’s right next to the diner, one of her daily stops. There’s not actually a closing time, it’s open 24 hours, but the shift is about to change. She glances around and darts down the alley to the side of it, around the building to hide between the back door and dumpster. It smells of damp stone and old food, musty and unpleasant. The chill from the concrete seeps into Nott’s bones. 

It takes about fifteen minutes before the door opens and a familiar pale face sticks out. A tiny spark of alarm rings in the back Nott’s head, something she can’t control or understand. It happens every time she sees her, the fight or flight response—she’s so tall, dark hair and piercing eyes, strong arms and an angular face. She’s been nothing but kind to Nott, and yet she’s still so scary.

“You out here?” Yasha calls softly, craning her neck and grinning slightly when she sees Nott huddled in a shadowed corner. She holds out a white styrofoam container, and Nott takes a few tentative steps forward. Yasha sets the container on the ground gently and shuts the door; Nott will never take it while she’s watching.

As soon as the door is closed, Nott springs forward like a cat and tears it open. The styrofoam is warm in her hands and steam wisps out, accompanied by a heavenly smell. There’s two golden waffles, a scrambled egg, and a large helping of crispy bacon. She scarfs down the bacon immediately, ignoring the plastic fork in the container. It’s greasy and savory and _amazing_ , a rare highlight that she always enjoys. She closes the to-go plate and holds it to her chest, letting the heat from the bottom seep into her cold body, and ducks deeper into the alley. 

One of the perks of this area is that everything remains in stasis. Things are, for the most part, safe. She takes a series of familiar turns, pointing out landmarks to herself until she reaches her destination. Tucked behind an unused, dented garbage can is a small, dingy cardboard box filled with Skittles wrappers. She checks to make sure they’re still there, untouched, and takes a moment to admire the bright red packaging before returning it to its hiding place. She sits down beside it to finish her dinner. This she savors, taking her time on the fluffy waffles, a little soggy from the condensed steam but still delicious. She eats scoops of scrambled egg wrapped in torn-off chunks of waffle, just slow enough to taste them. She sits, coiled like an animal in the alleyway, until the food is gone. 

Her sneakered feet tread silently on the concrete as she loops around back to the dumpster and tosses away the styrofoam plate, licked clean. The aftertaste is still fresh on her tongue, and she feels drowsy from the large meal. 

There’s one dilemma she has to contend with, and it’s a matter of food. She wants to hoard it, just in case. She can never tell when Yasha will be at the diner, sometimes waiting outside the door to no avail until it gets too late. She’s full now, and she has six pop-tarts shoved in her bag.

The shelter should be open, and they don’t allow food. There’s a high chance that they’ll search her bag and take it, and getting rid of them would be such a _waste_.

She makes her way towards the shelter, a small building with plain white walls and a trickle of people entering. It doesn’t usually fill up, not on a night like this; there’s no rain, no extreme cold. Nott has time. She slips down another alley, one she’s familiar with, and finds another small box. She takes the pop-tarts from her bag and shoves them in, making a mental note to pick them up in the morning. She feels the cold weight of anxiety settling in her shoulders, the back of her neck, and she knows it won’t go away so long as she has food stashed where she can’t see it. 

She gets in line hastily, avoiding eye-contact with the tired-eyed workers. They don’t like her, she thinks. They are supposed to take in everyone, they’re a _shelter_ , but they’d much rather have scruffy humans down on their luck than a little goblin girl. Nott isn’t down on her luck, and never has been. This is her place in a city like this.

She walks in the door with her head down. They’re supposed to take her bags if they’re not deemed necessary, but between the schoolwork in her backpack, the clothes in her satchel, and the lack of contraband in either, she manages to convince them to let her keep them. 

The bed is uncomfortable, but it’s a marginal improvement from the street or a park bench. She’s on a bottom bunk, shoved close next to the other beds, which are slowly starting to fill up. She recognizes more people every day, and yet there always seems to be new faces showing up. Nobody talks to her; a few give her sidelong glances. One older man glares at her, but his anger is tired and soulless. 

Nott tries to do her homework, but it’s frustratingly hard, and she gives up less than halfway through. She spends the time until lights out counting and recounting her collections; an ever-growing pile of quartz, shiny brass buttons, coins, interesting rocks—anything she could get her hands on. When they announce lights out, she shoves the quartz back into her bag and holds her things close to her as she lies on her side and drifts, quickly, to sleep.

 

It’s nearly ten before Beau finds her way back to her house. She doesn’t quite know where the time went—a thirty minute ride around the town stretched somehow to hours. Maybe it was the time she spent watching the sky fade from light to darkness. Maybe it was the fact that she doubled back on her route a few times, enjoying the sting of the cold night air on her bare arms. Maybe it was the star-gazing as night slipped over the town, minutes spent staring up at the sky with an indescribable feeling in her chest.

There’s something entirely unpleasant about the lack of anger she feels. There’s something shifting and empty inside her, climbing up her throat. She wants to cough it out but there’s nothing there, just empty air. She methodically looks through all the windows to search for movement, for light, and finds none. She gets back in the same way she got out—slowly sliding up the pane, climbing it with a little less carefulness than before.

The house is dark and cold and empty, and it sends a shiver down her spine. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the lack of moonlight, and even then everything is vague, fuzzy, existing in muted shades just barely visible. Somethings feels off, something feels _wrong_. She stands still for a long, tense moment and listens.

There’s nothing. No movement, no breathing, no creak. She steps tentatively forward and winces at how loud in sounds in the silence. She takes her shoes off there, carrying them under her arm the rest of the way. Her socked feet are much quieter, though the noise still reaches her ears enough to give her pause.

She ducks her head into the foyer, and there’s nothing. Up the stairs, nothing, silence, not even the usual creaking of the old house. She makes it to her room without a peep.

There’s a shifting uneasiness settling in Beau’s gut as she hears the quiet _click_ of her door closing. It sours her mood, turning the pleasant feeling of the nice ride acrid, bubbling and uncomfortable. She leans her board up against the wall and pulls her shirt over her head, forgoing a top in favor of sleeping shirtless. It’s usually a comfort, but even the feeling of the soft blankets against her bare shoulders has turned for the worse. Everything feels _wrong_ , the sheets scratchy and the air heavy. 

She plays the events of the day through her head as she lies there, staring at the shadowed wall, trying to find what caused this, but there’s nothing. School was uninteresting. The fight with dad wasn’t earth-shattering. Hell, detention had even been _fun_.

That thought sticks in her mind. Detention. She thinks briefly about the people she met there, and realized they came in pairs. Fjord and Jester, Yasha and Molly, Nott and Caleb, and then Beauregard.

She shifts, slightly, and so does the feeling in her stomach. She shuts her eyes tight and goes to sleep, unwilling to put a name to it.


	5. Chapter 5

Beau is supposed to be trapped in the house over the weekend. 

She wakes up blearily, the Saturday sun streaming through her window. She has a few plans bouncing around in her sleepy head, some half-baked ideas about sneaking out. It’s late; she doesn’t want to get up, and considers lounging around for another hour, but she won’t get anything done if she stays in bed past noon. 

Not that she gets anything done, anyway.

She hides in her room most of the day. There’s homework she could be working on, some due Monday and some later, but that’s what Sunday night is for. She doesn’t want to run into her parents, and she spends her time with one earbud out listening to their footsteps on the first floor.

She darts down a couple times for food, quickly and quietly. She doesn’t feel like staying down long enough to make something, and instead takes a box of cereal up to her room and spends most of the day munching on it.

Beau really starts thinking about plans midway through the afternoon, music blasting a little louder than necessary and the 3 o’clock sun high the sky. She can only assume that the alarm’s still set on the doors. The window worked fairly well. She has some money on her, enough to buy a six-pack of the cheap shit. 

Drinking alone is kind of boring, but it’s better than being trapped at home. Beau doesn’t have anywhere to go or anyone to hang out with; no parties that she knows of or regular haunts. But she craves the buzz of alcohol in her system, being hazy and loose letting go of the tension in her shoulders. 

Her plans get ruined at about 9pm, when she tiptoes downstairs and finds the window she’d used to sneak out locked from the outside. _Motherfucker._

Her dad is always petty, but this is a new level—he’s installed locks on _every_ downstairs window, somehow without Beau noticing all day. He knows she snuck out yesterday. She hasn’t seen him all day, and he’ll be waiting till they next time the cross paths to chew her out. 

She has free reign to raise hell in mean time, she supposes. She’s already in trouble. Can’t get much worse. 

The house is quiet, lights off and no sign of anyone awake but her, but that can be misleading. It’s not too late yet; her parents could reasonably be up. So, Beau slinks into the foyer with all the stealth she can muster which, at this point in her life, is a lot.

She slips past the winding double staircase in the foyer to the back room, a place somewhere between a library and a sitting room. It’s dusty with disuse, a wall full of old wooden shelves lined with books no one will read and two armchairs that are too fancy to be comfortable. The sofa has cushions arranged in a pattern Beau swears hasn’t been disturbed in years. The white rug spread across the middle of the floor is immaculate.

Stepping through here still sends a prickle of anxiety down her spine, the sense that it’s _forbidden_. She wasn’t allowed in when she was younger, and the feeling stuck. She darts through the room quickly, still instinctually skirting around the rug and leaving the furniture untouched. 

She ducks into the side hallway with two doors; one leading outside, and the other, thin and wooden, opening up to a stone staircase. It descends into a dusty basement with little other than cobwebs and a wine rack.

Beau is not allowed down there, but it’s been long enough since she’s tried that the door isn’t locked. She spares a wary glance over her shoulder and sees nothing, then quietly closes the door behind her and flips the latch.

The basement smells musty, like damp stone and stagnant air. It’s small and mostly empty—there’s a wine rack against one wall and a couple of cardboard boxes against another. They’re filled with miscellaneous junk that nobody can decide to keep or throw away. Holiday decorations, baby pictures, countless photo albums that are only bittersweet in retrospect. Come to think of it, most of the shit down here is Beau’s, relics from her childhood just sentimental enough to stop them from being chucked in the garbage. 

She runs her hand over a couple of dusty bottles. She has enough technical knowledge to be a wine snob, picked up through years of listening to her dad, but what she’s really learned is that it’s mostly bullshit. Wine is gross no matter how fancy it claims to be.

She carefully reads the labels that say less about the taste and more about the amount of trouble she’ll be in for cracking them open. They’re all reds, and she picks one that’s cheap enough that it won’t be terribly missed. Nothing here’s cheap, really, just cheap _enough_.

Beau had learned two years ago how to open a bottle of wine without a corkscrew. It’s something that’s proven to be useful for her, time and time again. It takes a minute, but she finally manages to pop the cork out and take a swig from the bottle.

It’s gross. It’ll get the job done. 

And it does. It _really_ does. Beau gets tipsy a little quicker than she intended, but it’s not like she’s complaining. It’s kind of nice—the warm buzz of the alcohol in her veins and the cold of the basement floor, of the wall against her back and she lulls her head back and takes another sip. She hums lightly and enjoys the absence of thought.

It’s not long before she’s out of wine and patience, and she’s not too drunk to realize that opening another bottle will be much more of a challenge now than before. But still, she’s had enough to feel good, any more would just be a worse hangover. 

There’s nothing to _do_ down here, a fact that Beau has severely overlooked. She squints her eyes and heaves a sigh, pushing off from the wall to take a few wobbly steps towards the cardboard boxes stacked in a dusty corner.

She wonders what’s actually in them. She’s never looked through them, just vaguely remembers packing up some of the stuff. She opens one and finds it stacked with photo albums, mementos, and couple of knick-knacks. There’s a pink knit blanket, an old pair of baby shoes, ratty stuffed animals and a small jewelry box. The kind of stuff you’re supposed to keep. 

Beau opens a photo album, one that looks pretty old. It starts with wedding pictures. Photos taken over 20 years ago, her parents nearly unrecognizable in their youth. Her mom has less hard lines, more of a pleasant, pudgy face. Her dad is still angular and severe but with less wear, no creases in his forehead. He looks like her. It’s something she’s always been told and never quite believed, but looking at the old photo, she finds that they share the same sharp chin and piercing blue eyes.

Beau doesn’t know how to feel about that, so she doesn’t feel about it, shoves it to the back of her head and flips forward through the album. Wedding, wedding, honeymoon, pictures of her mom big and pregnant. Almost three-fourths through is when the baby pictures start, a little ugly thing swaddled in pink. There are relatives she barely recognizes, an extended family that stays distant. There are lots of boring, insignificant pictures of a small, sleeping newborn.

There’s a certain disconnect in Beau’s hazy brain that keeps her from realizing that it’s really _her_ in those pictures. She reaches the end of the photo album and tosses it to the side, pulling out the one under it. It details much of her early childhood, the ages where new parents still take pictures. She watches the tiny barely-human take shape, starting to walk, growing dark brown hair, traipsing through snow in a puffy jacket with wonder in her eyes.

The pictures start trailing off when as she gets older, around 5, starting to appear only on birthdays and holidays instead of random outings. She has vague, fuzzy memories of when some of them were taken.

Whatever that feeling is, as she starts to recognize places and people and events, she doesn’t like it. She snaps the album closed and tosses it roughly back in the box, but it doesn’t stop the squirming in her chest.

There’s a vague discomfort to the chilled air now, like the stone walls are seconds away from closing in. The basement is so small, it’s kind of terrifying. It’s a dismal concrete box that now reeks of wine, sickly sweet and slightly acrid. The scent unexpectedly fills Beau’s lungs and she rolls the empty bottle away, swallowing dryly to keep from gagging.

It passes, in a flash. She closes the cardboard box and picks up the bottle, weakly shoving the cork back in and slipping it into the space she took it from. It’s not her best work, she knows, but her dad doesn’t come down _that_ often.

Beau climbs the stairs, testing to see how wobbly she is, how quiet she can be. It’s only on the edge of her mind, fighting to be a conscious thought among the greater to desire to just go to sleep. She unlocks the door and hugs the wall as she tiptoes through the house. She can hear her bare feet against the ground but she’s too focused to care.

It doesn’t matter. It’s not late, she’s not confined to her room, there’s no reason for her _not_ to be walking around the house. That’s a comfort, and she straightens her back, lets some of the tension out of her shoulders. She casually strolls up the stairs. No one stops her, no one questions her, there’s no one _there_ at all. Nothing is suspicious or out of place.

Still, it’s a relief when she’s in her room with the door closed and locked. She flops on the bed and absent-mindedly pulls over the box of cereal, chewing a few tasteless handfuls before throwing it on the floor.

Her teeth feel sticky and gross. She needs to brush them but the walk to the bathroom may as well be a mile. She pulls up her blanket and turns to her side, trying to grasp at the straws of her muddled thoughts as she drifts off to sleep.

She needs friends to drink with. That’s a priority. Drinking buddies. Where and how she’ll find them is a problem for a more sober, less tired Beau. That thought, at least, is familiar. 

She sleeps, heavy and dark, without dreams. 

 

She wakes up with a sour taste in her mouth and a searing headache, made worse by the light streaming in through her window. She groans and pulls the blanket over her head, squeezing her eyes shut. She fumbles for her phone and finds it, wincing as soon as it turns on.

She quickly lowers the brightness to check the time. It’s just past nine. That’s earlier than she has any reason to be up on a Sunday, but she has the sinking feeling that she won’t be able to drift back off.

She defiantly snuggles into the blanket, trying to relax, but the minutes stretch on without any sleep. It’s starting to get tedious, her brain only waking up more. And there’s the headache to contend with, pounding in her temples.

Beau stands up with a groan and draws the curtains, relieved by the lower light. She listens at the door for a second, and it seems the coast is clear. She darts to the bathroom down the hall to brush her teeth and take some painkillers, a familiar morning routine.

The headache starts to ebb away after an hour and a good breakfast, and it’s shaping up to be a not-so-shit day. The sun is warm and the air has a slight chill, a tinge of the onsetting autumn. The goosebumps on her bare arms are pleasant, though. It’s not enough to warrant wearing something over her tank top. 

The house has an eerie quiet to it in the morning hours. Everything’s a little louder than it should be, every soft footstep and door closing, every slight bump of the furniture a noticeable racket.

Beau is not worried about her parents. It’s Sunday morning. She lives here. She’s not, as far as she knows, in trouble for anything yet.

She does pass her mom on the way up to her room after eating, and she tenses for a moment but tries to look casual. Her mom offers little more than a disdainful glance and a cold, empty, “Morning, sweetheart.”

Beau grumbles something that vaguely resembles “Good morning,” and quickens her pace.

It’s a nice day, boring but in a pleasant way. It goes by a little too fast, Beau mournfully realizing as the sun sets over the horizon that the weekend is over. She stays up just to feel like there’s more time out of school, but eventually crashes.

 

Mondays are hell.

Beau barely has the energy to drag herself out of bed in the morning, letting the seconds tick by to minutes until she’s nearly late. She throws on more of the same old—sweats, tank top, flannel, whatever’s clean. She quickly brushes her teeth and pulls up her hair, then grabs her skateboard on the way out the door.

She sees her dad waiting for her by the front door, arms crossed. “You got up late,” he says like a passing remark, a meaningless observation.

“Yeah? I gotta get going or–”

“I’m driving you, remember?” He speaks like he’s driving in a knife, smug, sharp.

Beau freezes for just a second, caught on the teetering edge of decision, and she feels herself slip helplessly onto one side. “No you’re not,” she says firmly, with a bravado she could project but never feel.

He raises an eyebrow, almost amused by the haughty defiance, but the twitch in the corner of his mouth belies his cruel streak. This is a losing battle. “Get in the car.”

She’s already sliding down a slippery, dangerous slope. “No! I’m eighteen, I can ride to school by myself,” Beau snaps, and she feels her voice getting louder without thinking about it. She steps forward but her dad is right beside the door, blocking her exit. She feels electricity pulsing in her feet, the desire to run, the need to escape.

“You live in my house and you’ll do what I say, get in the car!” He starts in his signature calm but he barks the last part out, revealing just the hint of a snarl. 

Beau stares for a moment at the mirror of a face in front of her, the space between them crackling with energy. “Fuck this!” She spits and turns to opposite direction, springing forward with surprising speed towards the backdoor.

There are a few things Beau can be sure of in this world, and one is that her dad is too dignified to stoop to chasing her through the house. Walking away would be one thing, but running implies a danger, and he won’t give in to admitting that he’s dangerous. It’s hard not to sympathize with the person being chased down. Even assholes understand reason.

And Beau kind of likes it, the feeling of running. It’s exhilarating, her feet slamming hard against the wooden floor, darting around corners and past furniture. She’s fast as hell, always has been, and it’s not a long sprint before she’s breathlessly swinging the backdoor open and hopping onto her board.

She rides fast and free, fuelled by the adrenaline, and it’s almost enough to outweigh the sour taste the argument left in her mouth. The city is vast and grey before her, a place to get lost in, a maze of concrete in which she’s given free reign.

It’s a maze with no end, no exit, a distraction without reward. The school slides slowly into view. The adrenaline fades. Beau watches nameless, faceless students file in, follows them and becomes one among the throng, down the hallway and to class.

A rush of excitement about the thrill of life has no place here. She takes a deep breath and relaxes her shoulders, tries to let some of the excitement slide away so she wouldn’t have to spend the day restless, itching to feel the sting of the sharp wind against her skin.

She walks into 1st period in a hurry, still buzzing, and she catches a familiar gaze. Yasha’s looking at her with curious eyes and a soft half-smile. “Hey,” she says, quiet, casual.

Beau pauses, bewildered. She lets the silence stretch a little too long before she replies with a breathless, “Hi.”

Yasha turns away, and Beau darts to her seat, embarrassed. She glances back a few seconds later, and Yasha’s staring, bored, at the wall.

She’s got an interesting face. Of course she does—unnaturally pale, mismatched eyes, dark eyeshadow and a blue line running from her lip to her chin. Interesting. Hot? _Pretty_.

That’s new.

But she is _pretty_ , the way her dark hair frames her face, peppered with complex braids that must be a bitch to put in. And the way she wears her indifference, her cheek resting lazily against her large hand–

Beau’s thoughts are interrupted by someone calling her name.

“–Beau, are you listening to me?” McCauly is looking pointedly at her, eyes squinted in annoyance.

“No? I don’t care,” Beau says, almost on reflex, and she doesn’t care enough to regret it. She doesn’t look at him, keeping her eyes to the side but off of Yasha, exuding an air of indifference that feels palpably forced. 

McCauly sputters for a moment, bewildered, and a class full of high school seniors watches like carrion crows as Beau shifts her gaze to him, eyebrows raised in a slight challenge.

“I asked you–” He starts, voice shrill, but Beau cuts him off almost immediately.

“What part of ‘don’t care’ don’t you understand?” She’s past the point of pushing her luck.

He takes in a deep breath, as if to argue, but deflates. “Get out of my class,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

Beau loves making him wrestle with the fact that deep down, he just wants to fight with high school students. He gets a sick joy from it, but getting one in trouble is only fun if they argue about it. 

“Gladly,” she says, sing-song, and he angrily hands her a pink slip with hastily scribbled reasons for assigning detention. This is commonplace. It’s almost worth it to watch him glare.

Yasha glances at her on her way out, and she looks amused.

It’s _definitely_ worth it.

 

Beau may be regretting her decisions by the end of the day.

It’s Monday, she’s tired, and she wants to go home, not get stuck in a room full of people she barely knows. And they probably won’t even be able to talk this time, so it’ll just be thirty minutes of awkward silence.

She strolls in the room and everyone from last time is there, minus the big half-orc. They’re already sitting together in a loose circle, chattering. She glances at the desk and sees Caleb, sad and scruffy and clutching a different novel. 

Jester pops her head up excitedly and motions for Beau to come over, pointing at an empty desk that roughly completes the circular shape, between her and Yasha. Before she sits down, Beau turns her head to Caleb and calls, “Is this your new gig?”

He glances up from his book and smiles wryly. “It seems so.”

She nods and takes her seat, shrugging her stuff off. This feels less like a punishment and more like a secret club.

“I thought you didn’t have detention today, Beau!” Jester says excitedly, batting Beau on the shoulder with her tail. She’s smiling brightly, holding her phone in one hand and a half-eaten honeybun in the other. 

Yasha suppresses a laugh and Beau smiles broadly, lounging back in her desk. “What can I say? I’m a troublemaker.”

Beau glances at Molly, and it’s interesting to see someone with no pupils roll their eyes. “You call that trouble?” He taunts incredulously, leaning forward and resting his chin on his clasped hands. “You’ve never seen _real_ trouble.”

That sounds like a challenge, one that Beau is glad to take. “Really? I’ve gotten into some shit, much more hardcore than roughing up the teacher’s lounge,” she says, eyes narrowing into a look of amused condescension. 

He eats it up, the cocky smile and the smarmy confidence, loves every loathful second of it. He looks absolutely delighted when he says, “You really think that’s the worst I’ve ever done? I’d need hours to get into it, not to mention what Yasha could tell you.”

Yasha’s eyes go a little wide, surprised by suddenly being dragged into the conversation, and Beau takes that bait quickly. She turns to Yasha, sitting beside her with a look of mild panic. “I’d love to hear your stories sometime,” she says, leaning forward with a smirk.

She’s distracted by Nott, piping up with a scratchy, “What’re you doing?” while leaning over to peer at Jester typing away on her phone. Beau just catches the relief in Yasha’s eyes as the attention is diverted from her.

“I’m keeping Fjord updated on what’s happening! I don’t want him to miss out just because he’s a goody two-shoes.”

“Are you just typing our conversation verbatim?” Beau asks, taking a glance at the phone where she can see a wall of text spread up over multiple messages.

“Nooooo, I’m paraphrasing,” Jester says, and Beau doesn’t want to know what that entails.

“They’d probably let him hang out in detention even if he doesn’t have it,” Yasha offers.

“Yeah, but he has _homework_ or whatever,” Jester says, making sarcastic air quotes around ‘homework’. She glances at her phone and giggles, continuing, “Fjord says he doesn’t want to get within 100 miles of your pissing contest!”

Beau can’t help but laugh, and neither can anybody else; she even hears a soft chuckle from Caleb at the desk. It’s a fair take—it _was_ kind of a pissing contest. One that Beau would definitely win, but still.

They settle down after a moment, but there’s still a light, bubbling energy. They’re all stuck in grins, threatening every moment to burst into another fit of giggles. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re not only having fun, but breaking the rules while doing it. 

“Is Fjord your boyfriend?” Nott asks, out of the blue. There’s not a hint of mischief there, just blank curiosity. Beau and Molly try to suppress a snicker while Yasha glances awkwardly to the side.

Jester is unphased, smiling brightly, then even brighter when she types out her next text. “No, silly! We are just friends. Why do you ask?” Jester, on the other hand, knows _exactly_ what she’s doing, a glimmer of chaos in her violet eyes.

“Oh, I–you just seemed very, uh–you know, when you two–” Nott stammered, unprepared to have the awkward situation fall back on her, “Not a thing. Got it.”

“Fjord says—you know what? This is dumb, I’m putting you all in a group chat, give me your phone numbers.” It’s not a question, but a cheerful command.

Beau quirks an eyebrow and gives a sidelong glance to Yasha and Molly. Molly shrugs and rattles off his number, and Yasha follows suit, giving a momentary pause for Jester to enter it to her phone. Jester glances back up at Beau, and she acquiesces, giving her the number for the phone that she barely uses to keep in contact with anybody.

Jester looks at Nott, who sheepishly lowers her gaze and says, “I don’t have a phone.”

Beau feels her heart soften a little, and she thinks back to seeing Nott walking solemnly down the street a few days ago. There’s a few implications there that she doesn’t want to think about. 

Jester frowns and cocks her head, but brightens up just a second later. “Don’t worry, you can read off mine!” She scoots her desk over to Nott’s and holds the phone out for both of them to see, and Nott smiles softly. 

Everyone’s phone buzzes at once, and Beau sees a text from an unknown number.

_Everyone say hi!!!_

It was quickly followed by,

_Jester who is this_

Beau intuits that that must be Fjord, and she saves both of them to her short list of contacts. By the time she’s finished Jester has changed the name of the group to “Delinquent Squad.”

_Hey._

_Yasha, you have to say your name. Hey, it’s Mollymauk_

Beau chuckles, then saves their numbers, and texts back,

_Beau_

_Jester: Okay now if you have anything to say to us, say it here!_

_Fjord: Howdy everyone_

“Howdy?” Beau asks, eyebrow raised. 

“He talks like that,” Jester says with a shrug. She has her phone angled on the desk with Nott staring intently at it, eyes wide. 

“Oh, hey! This means we don’t even have to get detention to talk to each other!” Jester says excitedly, tail thumping against the side of the desk. “You guys will hang out with me and Fjord, right?”

Beau feels a little guilty about her plans to mute and ignore the chat when she gets home. It’s not _that_ much of an ask; Jester is fun to be around, and she can stomach Molly when he’s around Yasha. Nott’s fascinating and strangely endearing.

And it’s not like there’s anyone else she spends her time with. 

“Of course, darling!” Molly says, snapping Beau out of her train of thought. Yasha looks mildly amused and smiles fondly at Jester—Beau feels a twinge of annoyance.

“We gotta party sometime,” Beau says with a smirk, to test the waters. Friends are fine, but party friends are what she really needs.

“I love parties!” Jester says excitedly, slightly pointed ears perking up, “I’m really good at decorating, and we could get streamers, and balloons–”

“I don’t think that’s the kind of party she’s talking about,” Molly says pointedly, and he turns to look at Beau, “But I don’t think you’d be much fun.”

Beau’s a bit taken aback. She doesn’t know what to say. “Fair. Takes one to know one.”

She catches Yasha nudging Molly gently with her elbow. “You seem like plenty fun to me,” she says in that soft voice.

Beau feels the tips of ears growing hot. “Even more fun if you ditch the asshole.”

Yasha smirks, and Beau picks up more now than ever the amount of fondness in her eyes when she looks at Molly. “Can’t ditch him, sorry.”

“I don’t think they’re–” Nott starts loudly, but Jester quickly shushes her, watching the conversation with owlish eyes. All three of them look back at her, confused. She has her phone in one hand and she’s incessentally slapping Nott’s shoulder with the other.

“Whatcha talkin’ about?” Beau asks.

“I’m just giving Fjord updates.”

Beau glances at her phone, still, and raises an eyebrow.

“Not in the groupchat though, it would be boring to read everything you’ve been saying,” Jester says, and she makes a valid point.

“Fjord’s awfully quiet about it then,” Molly adds, “Is he shy?”

Jester cracks a wide smile, tail swishing excitedly behind her. “Maaaaaybe. I think he might be ignoring me.”

“Who does homework right after school anyway?” Beau asks.

“ _Fjord_ does because he’s a _nerd_ ,” Jester says, flicking her tail in annoyance.

Beau snorts, amused by the idea of the big, jockish half-orc being a _nerd_. She wonders where he got that years-old letterman jacket, whether he even plays a sport. Beau can’t say she keeps up much with the school’s teams, so she wouldn’t know. 

“Well, we’ll just have to teach him to loosen up,” Molly says, flashing a grin. Yasha rolls her eyes.

“Five minutes left, kids,” Caleb calls from the desk, and they all whip their heads to look at him. He’s glancing up from his book, which he seems to have gotten halfway through in the last twenty-five minutes.

“Awwww, I was having fun,” Jester whines, crossing her arms and pouting.

“We don’t have to go home just because detention’s over,” Molly says with a shrug.

“Really? You guys want to hang out with me!” Jester perks up immediately, leaning forward so far in her desk that Beau worries she’ll tip it over. 

Nott breaks her long silence with, “I don’t have anywhere to be.” She’s been quiet, watching everyone with wide eyes and taking every chance she got to read off of Jester’s phone. 

“Sorry, can’t,” Beau says, “Dad will be pissed if I’m not home.”

Molly’s demeanor ever so slightly shifts, less casual, shoulders more square, eyes attentive. “Too bad,” he says after a brief pause, and she can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

“Another time,” Yasha chimes in.

There go the tips of Beau’s ears again. She wonders if everyone can see them turning red.

They hear a sigh from Caleb, and he says, “You guys can just go now if you want to.”

“Thank you, Caleb!” Nott chirps, hopping quickly out of her desk. Caleb smiles fondly and waves at her as she makes her way out the door.

Jester follows quickly, with Molly, Yasha and Beau lagging behind. Molly’s keeping his eye on her, subtly. Beau prickles with unease. Yasha walks beside them, eyes ahead of her, seemingly unaware of the tension.

When they hit the turn in the hallway Beau heads the opposite direction.

“Where you going?” Molly asks, slowing to a halt.

“The way home is quicker from the front of the building.” It’s a clumsy lie, and she fumbles with it. She’s heading out front because her dad will be waiting for her out back. Molly raises a skeptical eyebrow, but says nothing. He turns and wordlessly walks away.

“See you around,” Yasha says softly.

“See ya,” Beau replies, but her back’s already turned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long one this time! As this goes on I'm really taking increasing liberties with the backstories so like...when canon destroys me don't be surprised


	6. Chapter 6

The air outside the school is brisk, biting with a sharp wind blowing, scattering leaves and trash down the street. The sky’s cloudy, not grey with rain but overcast, enough to block out the sun and wash the world into its bleaker shades.

Beau looks around and sees no familiar car. She’s home free. 

She gets about five minutes down the road before her phone starts buzzing in her pocket, and she slows her on board to check it.

_Jester: Beau we miss you :(((_

_Molly: No we don’t_

_Jester: Stop being mean >:(_

_Beau: It’s been five whole minutes calm down_

_Fjord: You’re really not gonna leave me alone, are you?_

She grins and slips her phone back into her pocket, ignoring the periodic buzzing for the rest of the way home. 

 

It’s surprisingly quiet when she gets there.

She walks in the door and there is nobody there to ambush here, just the dark foyer, empty. Her dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway; he must’ve gone to pick her up. He’ll probably be angry when he gets home, but it’ll fade quickly without a direct target.

She swings by the kitchen to pick up a snack, and freezes in the hallway as she catches sight of her mom.

She glances over her once, coldly, and says, “Your father was supposed to pick you up.” Her eyes hold every unspoken implication with a sense of haughty superiority. Her face looks on the verge of cracking into a cruel smile.

“Sure was,” Beau says nonchalantly, pushing past her with barely a glance. She won’t pursue. Ignoring her is the best strategy.

Beau closes her door and locks it. She’s not supposed to lock her door, but she does near-constantly; it relaxes her. There’s relief in the quiet haven of her room, in any forced interaction being between three inches of wood. It’s so much harder to be angry at someone you can’t see, at someone who’s muffled and distant.

Beau eats absentmindedly, makes a mediocre attempt at some homework. It takes twenty-five minutes before she faintly hears the slam of a car door and her heart jumps into her throat.

It’s a conditioned response. She quickly calms, but there’s still a buzz of anxiety in the back of her neck, a discomfort that settles in her shoulders.

The front door opens and shuts slightly louder than it has to. The sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps ascends the staircase. She tenses and shoves her homework to the side, pulling a blanket over her head and laying still.

There’s a knock on the door; Beau remains silent and pretends to be napping. She hears her dad twisting the doorknob and finding it locked; the door rattles in protest. 

“Beauregard, why weren’t you there when I came to pick you up?” His voice is raised slightly to carry through the door. He doesn’t sound angry, and something about that makes it worse.

Beau says nothing.

She can hear his muffled, heavy sigh. “I waste enough time on you already,” he grumbles, exasperated, and it has real bite behind it. He says it precisely because it’s meant to hurt. Beau can’t tell if it does.

She considers all the things she could say back to him, could yell from the safety of her locked room. Under her blanket it is dark and warm and scratchy, and she feels like she’s trapped there, in a cage much too small for her body. Seconds tick by without the reprieve of retreating footsteps.

He knocks again, much louder, _almost_ banging, and it carries behind it the weight of mounting anger. “You’re not allowed to lock your door, Beauregard.” And _there’s_ the usual tone, condescending, cruel. He takes pleasure in his own righteous fury, condemning Beau for every infraction, rhetorically listing every rule she breaks.

She bites her lip and doesn't move. It’s so hard to stay quiet; she’s buzzing with energy, with the need to do _something_. She feels like she’s on fire in the stagnant heat of the room, trapped underneath a layer of fleece and cotton. 

It’s a momentary stalemate, but Beau has the upper hand. Her dad gives in; wordlessly, she hears his heavy footsteps carrying him away.

She has it now, the freedom to move, to do what she pleases, to yell or kick or scream, but she stays there. She throws the blanket off herself and then is frozen, helpless. There’s nothing to be done, nothing that can help; useless movement is just that. _Useless_. A waste of energy, waste of time.

Beau sighs and stares at her ceiling. Her phone’s buzzing.

_Jester: Hey!!! What lunch does everyone have_

_Yasha: Second._

_Molly: We have 2nd with the obnoxious one_

_Jester: :33333  
We should all sit together!! _

_Fjord: Yeah, we have a table over by the doors near the gym_

_Jester: If you can’t find us we’ll find you ;)_  
_I’ll get Nott I know where she’ll be_  


It’s a welcome distraction. She’s trapped in the illusion of sleep for another hour at least, just to be safe. Or, she could actually take a nap. She’ll feel terrible when she wakes up, but just the thought of it is already making her eyes droop. The adrenaline is gone and she feels tired, worn out by the exertion of stress. 

She sinks into the mattress and lays on her side, eyes fluttering closed, and just lays. It takes a while to get to sleep, but it’s pleasant and still, unbroken by outside noise.

 

The first thing Beau notices when she blearily opens her eyes is how dark it’s gotten around her. The strong sunlight has faded to just a dim glow, and she looks out the window with a sinking feeling to see that the sun is setting. _Fuck_ , she slept longer than she meant to, and now she feels like shit, and it’s gonna be impossible to get to sleep tonight.

Priorities. Beau takes a moment to shake herself awake, blinking rapidly until she regains some level of rational thought. She listens to the sounds of the house and hears no movement.

She slips quietly out of her room and down the stairs, and the dining room is empty. She quickly finds something in the fridge to microwave and wolfs it down, not caring about the taste. Forgetting to eat is a bitch, especially in the morning when there’s no time to grab anything. 

But she’s still on edge the whole time she’s in the kitchen, waiting for footsteps, waiting for a confrontation. She’s got real reasons to be in trouble, and they keep piling up on top of each other. It’s the caveat to her strategy of avoidance; once the inevitable occurs, shit really hits the fan.

She’s due for a breaking point any time now. The house is still; she makes it back to her room safely.

Now she’s awake and alert, with nothing to do. She glances at the discarded homework but can’t bring herself to work on it. She picks up her phone and finds a few unread messages from the group, nothing of note and nothing concerning her.

That sparks an interest in her mind, though. She could waste time talking to them. That would, of course, entail dealing with Molly, and even through text his snark is enough to make her stomach turn. 

She really only wants to talk to Yasha. 

She doesn’t know much about Yasha, but she likes her—finds her tolerable, at least. Jester’s a lot, and she has no common ground with Fjord, but Yasha she could have a conversation with; or at least that’s how she rationalizes it.

She could text Yasha. She has her number. But she stops herself, because Yasha didn’t really _give_ her the number, she got it in the groupchat. She doesn’t know if that would make things weird, if she's allowed to text her outside the context of the group. She could be overstepping some unwritten boundary.

Beau stares into the distance, deliberating with eyes narrowed. The worst case scenario is that she makes things awkward with a friend she has little intention of keeping around. By all means, it’s low risk, and _yet_.

Beau opens the empty thread of messages and starts typing, but she’s at a loss for what to say. She doesn’t really have anything to talk about. The indecision is frustrating.

_Beau: Hey yasha_

She hates it as soon as she hits enter, but it’s out there, unable to be taken back. She waits a long few minutes, too long, and the passing time is agonizing. It shouldn’t be; it has no right to be, but it is.

Ten minutes go by before she gets a reply.

_Yasha: Hey._

It comes like a punch to the gut; she can imagine the disinterested tone, the inconsequential flick of Yasha’s eyes across her face. Indifference, annoyance—it’s written across the message plain as day. Beau considers not replying, but she can’t just awkwardly end the conversation there, scared off by a full stop.

_Beau: Kinda crazy meeting everybody isn’t it_

It’s the only thing she can think to talk about, the anomaly of these new friends.

 _Yasha: Yeah. It’s pretty weird._.

Beau’s beginning to think that maybe, _maybe_ , she just types like that. Yasha didn’t seem that snippy in person, especially with her.

_Beau: That jester really is something_

_Yasha: She’s endearing._

Endearing is certainly a word one could use. Or charming. Baffling. Disorienting. Beau doesn’t know how to reply to that. She spends a long moment throwing around things to say in her head but there’s nothing organic, nothing worth typing. She tosses her phone to the side and flops down on her pillow, arms spread out.

It’s actually dark now, the sun gone beneath the horizon. Beau doesn’t feel like sleeping. She feels wired, electric, her thoughts running almost too fast to keep up. A few more messages come in, buzzing in rapid succession

_Yasha: I didn’t meant that in a weird way though._  
Endearing like a friend.  
Not like anything else. 

She smiles, softly. For all the stoicism, Yasha’s kind of awkward.

_Beau: No i get what you mean_

Seconds pass to minutes without a reply, and Beau decides again to abandon the conversation. She springs out of bed and paces in a quick circle around her room, looking aimlessly around for something to catch her eye, anything of interest.

There’s not much. Her room is fairly bare—there’s furniture and clutter, but nothing truly interesting. Beau absentmindedly picks a crumpled pair of pants from the floor and tosses it in the hamper. 

She’d fallen asleep in her school clothes, a wrinkled t-shirt and black harem pants. She changes into pyjamas—a slightly softer t-shirt that’s far too big, hanging midway down her thighs and threatening to slip off her shoulders. 

Beau flops back down on her bed and closes her eyes. She’s good at sleeping, it's one of her only talents, and yet she feels wide awake. She pulls the blanket up to her chin and sits, tense, eyes open and staring into the darkness.

It takes some time. Beau swims in a sea of thought for a while, trying not to slip too far down any particular path. It’s all circular, anyway; her thoughts inevitably come back to that small band of assholes. It makes sense—they’re new, a change in her usual monotony, the only thing _interesting_ she’s been around in some time. It only makes sense, then, that they’d color her thoughts for a while.

And it’s down this line of thinking that Beau is caught, and, without realizing, falls asleep.

 

Their faces were in her dreams—she can’t remember much, no context, no actions or words, just each distinctive person, greens and blues and pale, pale whites. Beau feels groggy, the kind of tired that comes from getting too much sleep, and dragging herself out of bed is a chore.

It’s earlier than normal. Beau listens intently for a moment and slips out her room, towards the bathroom at the end of the hall. She takes a shower hot enough to shock her body into waking up, hot enough that the chill of the morning air is unpleasant when she steps out of the bathroom with her hair still wet.

It sounds like everyone in the house is still sleeping. Beau swings by the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. She rarely eats breakfast because she rarely has time, usually opting to wake up the latest she possibly can to get to school on time. It’s not exactly pleasant—it’s mediocre—but there’s something cathartic about eating alone in the dining room.

Beau waits quietly downstairs for the better part of an hour, hiding near the back door as she listens to her parents waking up and starting their morning routine. She hears her dad’s footsteps disappear up the stairs and a few harsh knocks echo from what must have been her door. There’s a brief pause and the footsteps resume, slightly louder, back down.

There are murmurs of conversation, the sounds of breakfast being made, and the shuffling of footsteps echoing through the house. Beau can’t catch much of what they’re saying, but that’s more a relief than anything. As she’s gotten older, her parents have mostly stopped the loud, early-morning arguing that she remembers acutely from her childhood, but she still expects it, beyond reason, every time. 

When it’s a respectable time to leave—and when her dad’s footsteps disappear up the stairs again—Beau slips out the back door.

Class is a chore, but she’s too tired to be snappy. McCauly glares at her when she walks in. Yasha gives her another soft, “Hey.” Beau waves back, ignoring the asshole at the desk, and the smile splitting her face is embarrassingly wide.

Beau turns her brain off for most of the day, paying loose attention to lectures, half-heartedly working problems. She has a chemistry quiz that she bullshits her way through.

She snaps back to reality, somewhat, during 5th period. Yasha and Molly are there, talking quietly to themselves from their place against the left wall of the classroom. Yasha waves awkwardly when she sees Beau; Molly sticks his tongue out at her.

The bell rings for 2nd lunch halfway through class. Beau remembers Jester’s offer but thinks it’s hollow—a courtesy, if anything. She watches Yasha and Molly disappear quickly down the hallway and follows at a slower pace.

The cafeteria is already noisy a near-full when Beau gets there, losing the two in the crowd. She goes through a line and grabs boring, tasteless food, just like always. She’s just about to turn towards where she usually sits when she catches a blue hand waving frantically in her periphery.

“Beau! We’re over here!” Jester says with a cheesy grin, standing up with one knee still in her seat. Beau can see her thin tail whipping back and forth, hitting Fjord, but he seems used to it. Molly and Yasha are sitting opposite them, close to each other. Nott is barely noticeable in the seat behind Fjord, glancing up with owlish eyes at the commotion.

Beau sighs and pauses for a moment, and it’s enough to know she can’t pretend that she didn’t hear her. She turns and takes the seat beside Jester at the circular table, one away from Molly. Jester wraps an arm around her shoulder and gives her an excited side-hug. She awkwardly freezes, shoulders going tense until she lets her go. 

“Good to see you too, man,” Beau says with an awkward half-smile, half-grimace, clapping Jester hesitantly on the shoulder. She looks genuinely touched.

There’s a brief pause as everyone waits to see who’ll speak first. Molly takes the initiative, turning to Beau with a familiar sneer. “Yasha tells me you made it a whole day without making a scene?”

Yasha raises an eyebrow, but he looks delighted by it.

“What can I say? I’m a shining beacon,” Beau deadpans.

“What classes are you guys in right now?” Jester asks, changing the subject without second thought.

“Mythology,” Beau and Molly say at the same time, and Yasha nods to indicate the same.

“Oh, is that class fun? It sounds fun!”

“It’s kinda...boring?” Beau says, “Real easy though.”

“There are certainly worse,” Molly adds with a shrug. 

“I want to take fun classes, though,” Jester says with a pout, “What’s fun?”

Beau snorts. “There’s literally no fun classes, it’s _high school_.”

“The obnoxious one is right,” Molly says, taking a long sip from a carton of chocolate milk.

“Really, what is with the obnoxious one stuff—” Beau starts, but Jester cuts her off.

“I have fun classes! I think art is fun, and ag science is fun because we get to look at pictures of animals, and literature is fun because I can draw little dicks in the corner of all the pages–” 

“Jester, you know other people have to use those books,” Fjord says, resigned.

“I’m improving them.”

He smiles, faintly. “You got me there.”

When left to their devices, Jester and Molly dominate the conversation. There’s the occasional input from Fjord—always something clever, calculated and quiet—or the even rarer addition from Yasha. Nott watches them, skittish and uncomfortable. Whenever she breaks into the conversation it’s something that takes over completely, well-placed enough to get everyone to change the subject.

Beau joins in where she wishes. They’re all interesting people, and above all else, funny as hell.

Except for Molly.

To put it lightly, he’s an ass. Beau has never liked him, but she’s now becoming acutely aware of how much she _despises_ the motherfucker. His grating, lilting accent, his cocky attitude, his unending well of snark—it tests her nerves unlike anything else.

She doesn’t understand how someone as sensible as Yasha puts up with him on a daily basis. And he doesn’t hide his distaste for her, founded on absolutely nothing. She’d punch him if she could get away with it.

The bell rings and shakes her out of her thoughts. Everyone disperses quickly—Jester shouting an excited goodbye and pulling Fjord along, Nott slipping off into the crowd, Molly and Yasha joining each other to walk down the same hallway Beau is heading towards. 

Beau sighs. She may as well make an effort.

She catches up with the two of them, joining their conversation with an awkward wave. There’s a momentary lull in the talking, all three of them unsure what to say with the shifted dynamic.

“Great seat, isn’t it? Much better than where I’ve been stuck all year,” Beau starts, cocking her head towards the cafeteria. It’s their only common ground. 

“Yeah, I like it,” Yasha says faintly.

“Where _were_ you sitting?” Molly asks pointedly. He doesn’t care about the location, Beau thinks, he wants to know the people.

“You know that long table near the back—Reggie, Mira, Ty, them?” She’s curious to see how he’ll react.

He raises an eyebrow and laughs excitedly, clapping his hands together. “You would!” Yasha looks confused. 

Beau’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean—they aren’t altogether unpleasant people. A little embarrassing, maybe. She shrugs it off.

“But I like the new place,” she continues, and angles her head up to look at Yasha, pause prolonged until they make eye contact, “Real nice view.” 

Yasha quickly looks away from her, and Molly visibly shifts, shoulders squared a little defensively. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything before Beau catches sight of the classroom door and ducks inside.

He gives her a real glare for the rest of class, probably will for the rest of time, but hell, it’s worth it to see Yasha blush. She is blushing—Beau just catches the tinge of pink fading from her cheeks as she sits down, forming her face back into it's mask of indifference. There's a warm bloom of satisfaction in Beau's chest, the hint of a smile curling the edge of her lips for the rest of class.

When class finally ends and Beau walks out the door, she feels the smack of a tail, sharp, against the back of her legs, but when she looks around Molly is nowhere to be seen. The warmth is replaced with a sudden surge of annoyance, her eyes narrowed as they scan through the crowd for the big purple asshole. 

Ostentatious and stealthy don’t usually mix, and yet, he’s gone. Beau flexes her fingers in annoyance, filled with the acute urge to hit something. It passes after a few moments, but she's still left with a lingering anger, the feeling that anything might set her off again. School ends without note, meaningless classes filled with repetition, and nothing manages to budge the chip on her shoulder. There’s no detention today, and she’s caught between being relieved and disappointed.

She catches sight of Molly, smoking behind the gym, just as she walks out of the school building on her way home. _Relieved,_ she thinks, _definitely relieved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, a little update on things.
> 
> Life has been incredibly hectic these past few weeks, and it's kind of a miracle I managed to get this one out on time. That being said, things aren't exactly slowing down, so don't be surprised if the next update is pushed back a week or so. Thanks so much for sticking with me this far, and I hope I can manage to keep updating in a timely fashion! I wouldn't be too worried about that after this little hiccup, as I've got lots of free time after it on the horizon <3


	7. Chapter 7

Molly leans his head back against the wall, horns scraping lightly against the bricks, and exhales smoke. Having cigarettes on school property is against every rule in the book, but he’s yet to get caught. He likes to press his luck.

It’s become a sort of tradition, to have a smoke out behind the gym after school. Molly’s not quite sure how it happened, but it’s pleasant. He catches sight of Yasha rounding the corner to join him and waves nonchalantly; she holds up a hand back. 

Yasha’s quiet, and that’s normal, but there’s a conversation rattling in Molly’s head that he’s been itching to have. It’s not like him to keep things bottled up, especially around her. He exhales a puff of smoke, watching it dissipate into the open air.

“Never seen you blush like that,” he says, quick, casual. It catches her off guard, like he knew it would.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Yasha asks, a little flustered but more confused than anything.

“You don’t have to listen to her just because she compliments you,” Molly continues with a knowing smirk. 

“Are you talking about Beau?” Yasha gets quicker at cutting through his bullshit every day. 

He takes one last drag and tosses the cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the asphalt with his heel. “Maybe.”

“You never make any sense, Molly,” Yasha sighs, leaning back against the wall.

He sighs heavily. “You’re a smart girl. Just don’t let her get to you.” He kicks off the wall with one foot and starts walking away, leaving Yasha blinking owlishly behind him.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” she calls faintly before following him.

Molly lags slightly to let her catch up. He bumps her with his shoulder, hard, but she doesn’t budge. “You’re my favourite, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“And Beau’s the fuckin’ worst.”

Yasha cocks her head curiously. “I thought you kinda liked her,” she says softly, and she contemplates it for a second, “I like her.”

Molly grins, wide, and there’s a mix of pity and affection in his bright red eyes. “Don’t worry about it.” He huffs a laugh, and Yasha can smell the stale scent of smoke on his breath.

She rolls her eyes and shoulder-checks him back, nearly sending him off his feet. She can’t hide her smile, coy and knowing. “Alright.”

 

It’s been a few weeks, and Beau is really starting to enjoy her new arrangement.

It took some getting used to, sure, and perhaps she’d considered bouncing altogether a couple of times, but they’ve consistently managed to draw her back in. They’re kinda like a black hole. Or quicksand. Something like that. 

The hints of autumn have given way to the full, biting chill of early November, and Beau finds herself more and more frequently abandoning her tank tops in favor of something to keep the cold away. 

She's been treading lightly lately. The distraction of the groupchat keeps her entertained enough not to go stir crazy, and the lack of sneaking out leads to a marked improvement in the amount of times she gets yelled at. 

That’s a worry that’s been slow-growing in the back of her head. It hasn’t been that bad lately, and that’s cause for concern. Her dad _likes_ to be angry, he thrives on it, and it’s been months since there’s been a truly serious fight. He’s due for a breaking point at any time. There’s no use thinking about it, really, because there’s nothing she can do, but it still gnaws in the back of her mind. Like always, she pushes it down.

It’s early as shit. Beau drags herself out of bed with minimal enthusiasm and mills around downstairs. She’d eventually given in to her father’s relentless insistence that he should drive her to school, but nothing too bad has come of it.

“Beauregard, you ready?” He calls from the other room, and it almost sounds jovial. He’s been in a good mood the last few days—something favorable at work, Beau had caught in a passing conversation at dinner. She has no idea how long it’ll last, but plans to take advantage of it as much as she can.

She still brings her board to the car. Not having it puts her on edge. He side-eyes her for it but she can’t bring herself to care. 

He tries to start light conversation in the car—asking about school, friends, anything—but Beau answers in short, clipped sentences, and it doesn’t take long before the talking stops.

She has no reason to be so tense, but she can feel it in her shoulders, in the tips of her fingers. Something isn’t right; things are too calm. She’s waiting for a slight shift in the air that will entail everything crumbling from it’s fragile peace into the mess it should be. The anticipation is killing her.

She steps out of the car and the weight remains. She glances at the bleak school building and her shoulders sag. The mood remains all day, the slight paranoia, and she’s snappier than usual. 

That doesn’t matter, much; Beau’s always snappy. It’s _expected_. Nobody seems to notice the change that she feels palpably. It’s just another bad day, and it’s only really noticeable when it comes to _Mollymauk_.

He’s his usual self, and that’s the problem. He’s grating, and loud, and _snarky_ , ad nauseam, and if Beau normally wants to punch his lights out, then this is a new feeling entirely. She wants to lay on the ground and scream in frustration. And of anybody to notice her foul mood, it _had_ to be him.

She can see it in the way he narrows his eyes at her when she snaps a one-word response to Jester at lunch. There’s no sympathy there, just cat-like intrigue, heightened by the flick of his tail behind him. He doesn’t say anything, not immediately. He waits until the bell rings and everyone’s caught up in the clamor of moving to class. He sidles up beside her, always too close for comfort, and says, “Bitchier than usual today, aren’t we?”

Beau’s eyes narrow and she clenches a fist. “Yep,” she spits, and darts the fuck away as quick as possible. Molly doesn’t give chase, doesn’t even seem phased. He’s grinning, sharp canines poking out from his top lip. 

It sticks with her the rest of the day, on top of the bad mood. Her shoulders are _that_ much heavier, _that_ much more weighed down with annoyance and frustration. The minutes can’t crawl by fast enough. It’s eventually, agonizingly, over, and Beau knows she can’t stomach the car ride. Near the beginning of 7th period, she shoots her dad a text.

_Beau: Have to stay a little bit to retake a test. No need to pick me up._

She doesn’t know if he’ll actually listen, but at least he can’t get mad at her for not telling him. And of course, she’s lying, but it just gives her the excuse to spend another half hour cruising around the town, not worried about the stress of being home. A little of the day’s weight is lifted.

That feeling doesn’t last for long. Beau grabs her board from her locker and makes a beeline for the exit, forgetting that it’s the one by the gym until she sees Mollymauk there, smoking his usual cigarette. He exudes smugness. It makes her blood boil.

It should be easy to ignore him—he’s across the way, not even speaking to her. She should skate away and forget about it. Yasha’s not even there with him, there’s no earthly reason to even notice his presence–

Their eyes meet, briefly. He holds up his middle finger and sticks his tongue out. Beau feels the tension that’s been building up all day snap, clean and final. She’s seeing red.

Beau’s always been fast—maybe it’s something natural about her body, or gained from the years of running as her first defense. She darts over to Molly with an agility that surprises him, so much so that he drops the still-lit cigarette to the ground and, for just a second, his red eyes go comically wide. Beau shoves him into the wall, hard enough that she can feel it, and she grabs the front of his shirt in a bundled fist. He stands nearly six inches taller than her, pinned, bewildered. 

He blinks owlishly before the smirk returns to his face, and he says, “Anyone but you and I’d be into it.”

Beau grits her teeth. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Right now? Well, an angry little asshole thinks she has me pinned up ag—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Beau spits, and her grip on Molly’s shirt loosens. He makes no attempt to escape.

“What’s _your_ problem?”

That catches Beau off guard. She figured she’d be the one doing all the questioning, and now the adrenaline is starting to wear off and it’s just awkward. She lets him go, and he doesn’t move. “I wouldn’t have a problem if you didn’t have a problem with _me_ ,” Beau starts, narrowing her eyes, “You’re a huge dick. To me specifically, _all the time_.”

Molly shrugs. “I’m kind a dick. Don’t act like you’re not guilty, too.”

Beau takes a step back, and, behind the anger, she’s more confused than anything. 

“So, what were you trying to do here? Punch me, take my lunch money?” Molly asks, sticking his chin out for emphasis. He taps his cheekbone lightly and says, "Come on. Right here." Beau can’t help but snort.

“You’re just, _very_ punchable, you know that?” Beau’s surprised by the lack of bite in her voice, and it’s almost funny. She’d fully intended to knock his lights out less than five minutes ago. 

“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Molly replies, taking a moment to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt. He pulls out another cigarette from the pocket of his elaborate coat and lights it without a word.

Beau steps a little further away, suddenly struck with embarrassment. She doesn’t want to just walk away, feels like there’s _something_ more to be said, but she doesn’t know what. 

“Hey, isn’t Yasha usually out here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Molly says, all toothy grin, and a stab of the annoyance returns.

“I was just asking you a goddamn question, you—”

“It’s November. She’s got wrestling practice.” He turns and blows smoke downwind, away from her. 

“Oh. Cool.” There’s a pause. “Yasha’s on the wrestling team?”

“Have you seen her arms?” Molly grins slyly, side-eying Beau.

“ _Yeah_. I mean, yeah, uh, of course I’ve noticed—” She stops and pauses, regaining herself, “She’s really strong.”

“She could break you in half.”

“ _I know_.”

Molly wrinkles his nose and takes a long drag. “Don’t say that like it’s a good thing.”

Beau steals a glance at her phone, checking the time. “I should probably go, my dad is, uh, expecting me home.”

Molly raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “You listen to your dad a lot?”

Beau huffs a laugh. “Rarely.”

“So you can stay ‘till Yasha gets out?”

Beau considers it, but her thoughts linger on the tense car ride and the deceptively cheery air as of late. “Love to, but he’d be pissed, and I don’t wanna deal with it.”

“Fair enough.”

Beau grabs her board, left discarded a few feet away. Before she kicks off, she spares a glance at Molly and sighs, begrudgingly. “We cool?” 

He chuckles deeply, tail whipping side to side behind him. “Yeah, we’re cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I made it! This chapter is admittedly a little shorter than normal, but hey, _stuff happened_.


	8. Chapter 8

Beau realizes much too late that she’s in the calm before the storm.

It clicks the moment the clouds break and the rain pours down, lightning arcing and thunder booming. That’s what crosses her mind in the moment instead of something reasonable like, _how do I get out of this_ or _where can I run_. But that’s not important, right now, because she’s still in the calm. 

And it’s so, _so_ nice. The tension she’s felt from the lack of being yelled at fades after she nearly clocks Molly, and suddenly he’s much less annoying. She hesitates to say he might even be growing on her, as much as that makes her want to throw up. 

It’s nice. Everybody’s _friends_ , they’re all good and funny and distracting. Over the next few days, Beau hesitantly spends time hanging out with Molly behind the gym (just waiting for Yasha, she makes that clear, that she’d never hang out with him just for the hell of it). She joins the two of them on their walk home. She learns that Yasha drives but her truck only starts half the time, so she’d rather not rely on it, and the trip is quick enough that it’s not a bother.

They live together, in small apartment building (really small, only a few rooms in the whole thing). Beau doesn’t ask questions about parents or money, because it’s not her place. These walks are time she doesn’t have to spend in the quiet tension of her house, so it’s good time to her. She explains it away to her dad by saying she’s getting math tutoring—even convinces Caleb to cover for her if he investigates the lie. 

She sees more of Caleb around now, she thinks. He goes out of his way to greet her when she comes into class, and the job watching detention has continued to stick. Every so often, he’ll have a few sentences of short conversation with her, though it’s never much. Everyone in their little friend group has come to adore him—especially Nott.

The walks are nice; Yasha grins as Beau bickers with Molly, who’s becoming more tolerable day by day. She wouldn’t say she _likes_ him by any means—he’s still a huge asshole, of course—but he’s tolerable. Sometimes Jester joins them and distracts Molly long enough for Beau to have short conversations with Yasha.

She doesn’t say much, Beau has learned. She gets flustered easily and isn’t great at carrying a conversation. Beau asks her questions; she answers in short, clipped sentences that don’t feel impolite. Beau understands; she’s not good at talking, either. They have that in common, and they have a lot of things in common. Without knowing why, Beau finds that it’s her favourite part.

Today, Jester is not here, and it’s just Molly and Yasha flanking either side of her. Molly walks slightly ahead of them, energetic as always. He’s going on about something at work, which isn’t unusual. They get a lot of weird people at the small local diner, the kind of place you could pass a hundred times without noticing. Molly acts like he hates it, but Beau gets the feeling that he’s got a certain fondness for the place.

She can see the building approaching in the distance; an unsuspecting, flat-roofed place shoved between two other nondescript buildings. Molly turns to face them as they got closer to the door, and says, “Alright, Beau, what’d you learn about numbers today?”

Yasha snorts as Beau rolls her eyes. He makes the same joke every time, and somehow it continues to be funny. Beau steps onto her board and flips him off.

“See ya!” Molly calls, wrinkling his nose in a delighted sneer. Yasha waves quietly, and Beau awkwardly waves back. She kicks off her board just as Molly disappears into the front door. 

As she rides home, the sky’s overcast with grey clouds and the air is humming with electricity. It’ll rain soon, but not now; now it’s just slightly damp and warm, the temperature a welcome change from the usual autumn chill. Part of Beau likes it, this weather, but part of it puts her on edge. She’s waiting for the clouds to break, but they hold until she’s safely home.

The sound of the drizzling rain starts a few minutes after she walks in the door, surprisingly light for the heavy cloud cover. She hears the occasional low rumble of thunder, and her sense of unease grows. The house is quiet; her dad’s not home, she can just sense it. A few minutes of poking around proves her suspicion. The car’s not in the garage. She passes her mom in the foyer while slipping back to her room and asks, “Hey, where’s dad?”

“There was something at work, he said he’d be home late,” she says quickly, avoiding eye contact. Her tone holds restrained fear. Something _bad_ at work, something he’s gonna be pissed about. A flash of lightning illuminates the room in stark white for just a brief moment, followed a couple seconds later by a long, low rumble.

Hours pass, and with each there’s an increased sense of dread. The rain grows heavier, oppressive even from inside the house. The air is heavy with moisture, the wooden floorboards creak, everything feels full the bursting. It’s eight o’clock, and Beau’s hungry, tired of hiding in her room with tense shoulders. She scampers down to the kitchen to make something quick. She can’t be in there more than 20 minutes, hastily shoving her dishes in the washer, when she slips into the foyer and sees the door slam open. 

She freezes in place, watching her dad stride in the front door and angrily discard an umbrella on the floor. He’s speckled with rain and absolutely radiating fury; his eyes lock on to her the second he realizes she’s standing across the room.

He’s far but the staircase is farther, and in the few seconds it takes Beau to register that, he’s moving towards her, heavy footfalls with intense purpose. She starts sliding along the wall, trying to insert some distance, but it’s hopeless.

“Beauregard,” he says firmly when he gets within a few feet, and it sends a chill down her spine. She’s racking her brain for what she’s done recently, any infraction, but she’s coming up blank. That scares her more than knowing.

“Yeah?” She chokes out, trying to sound casual. She’s standing straight up, back flat against the wall, and she can feel her heartbeat hammering in her chest.

“When’s the last time you were in the basement?” 

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._ It’s been weeks, Beau forgot about that, and she hasn’t stolen anything sense. She wonder briefly how long he’s known, how long he’s been waiting to blow up about it—or if her mom found out and ratted only now that he’s in a bad mood, to get him angry at Beau instead of herself. 

“Months? You locked me out.” She stumbles slightly over her words, and he looks like he’s not buying it. It’s not a convincing lie, not with the way her breaths are coming out too quick and her voice is higher than it’s ever been.

“An entire empty bottle,” he says, cold and biting. His eyes flick away for just a second as the room flashes white and a crack of thunder hits so loud it shakes the house. The rain gets louder, almost drowning out the blood rushing in Beau’s ears, and in a moment of clarity, she thinks, _this was just the calm before the storm._

She doesn’t say anything, and he takes the opportunity to continue. “Beauregard, I work for you, I pay bills for you, I sacrifice everything for _you_ , and this is what you give me?” His voice rises to a crescendo, deafeningly loud over the sheets of rain hitting the roof, “You’re worthless, you can’t _listen_ , you’ve never done a single thing to ever make anything of yourself after everything I’ve given–”

Beau lets go of her fear, because it’s replaced with white hot anger. “Listen to yourself!” She yells, and it’s _loud_ , almost as loud as his booming voice but lacking the resonance. He looks taken aback and it only makes her bolder, puffing out her chest and staring with fury at the matching blue eyes inches above her own. “You’re screaming at a child to make yourself _feel better_!”

“You’re not a child anymore,” he retorts, quieter and laced with a familiar cold anger. He looks just slightly disoriented, and it feels fantastic.

“When did I stop being your child, then?” She’s baring her teeth, so tightly clenched that it hurts.

“You have done _nothing_ for this family, Beauregard, why do you think you have the right to talk back me?”

“You’re missing the entire fucking point!” Beau shouts, clenching her fists, “I don’t owe you _shit_ , and I will never owe you shit.” She says it slowly, deliberately, each word spit in his face.

His nose twitches and he breathes a deep, heavy sigh, pulling his lips back into a sneer. “This wouldn’t have happened if you were a boy.”

That’s the last straw. The one that only got brought up when a fight was _serious_ , when the aim was never to win but to maim, to wound into submission. And it still hurts, every time it hurts, it shouldn’t anymore but it still fucking _stings_ , like the tears threatening to gather in Beau’s eyes.

Beau shoves him with all her force, and she isn’t very strong, but she catches him off guard and manages to push past. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his fingers twitching with the instinct to grab her arm, but something stops him.

She doesn’t run. She walks towards the door, feeling his eyes burning in the back of her head the whole way. When she reaches it, he calls, “Where are you going, Beauregard?”

“Out!” She yells, slamming the door open and immediately being hit with the rain, cold and stinging and _good_. He makes no move to stop her as she crashes the door shut behind her.

She has next to nothing, she realizes as she stands on the front step. Her board is in her room and she is _not_ going back up there. She’s got a quickly-soaking shirt and a pair of sweatpants, the pockets containing nothing but her phone. She pulls it out, ignoring the water splattering across the screen, and types out a quick message to Yasha’s number.

_Beau: Hey what are you doing_

She dimly hopes that her waterproof case holds up, not waiting for a reply before she shoves it back in her pocket and starts walking in the direction of Molly and Yasha’s apartment. 

 

It’s not a short walk. Her feet hurt, she’s chilled to the bone, her clothes are heavy and wet on her back. She’s not sure how long it takes to get there, losing track of time as she navigates in the darkness through slate-grey buildings that are more familiar than anything else in this world. She recognizes the door when she gets there, the flat-roofed building, the beat up truck parked uselessly in the driveway.

She only starts having seconds thoughts after she’s already knocked on the door. A stab of nervousness finds its way into her gut, the steadily dwindling downpour still stinging against her numb arms. She doesn’t know what she expects to see when the door opens, but it’s not a pair of confused red eyes staring down at her.

“Beau?”

“Is Yasha home?” It’s the first thing she thinks to ask, more out of instinct than tangible thought. She vaguely remembers texting Yasha, though she still has no idea if she’s replied. 

“No, she’s gone,” Molly says, and he’s too confused to be bullshitting her.

“Cool, cool,” Beau absently.

“Do you wanna come inside?” Molly asks with a sigh, his brow furrowed, and she hesitantly nods. He stands to the side and motions her in, wincing slightly as she leaves wet footprints on the wooden flooring. 

He shuts the door quietly and turns to face Beau with an expression that conveys about twenty different emotions at once. He starts his sentences a few times before finally settling with, “What the absolute fuck are you doing here?”

She blinks for a moment, a little dazed by the question. “I kinda just wanted to hang out.”

“So you walked for god knows how long through the torrential rain? Without your stupid fucking skateboard?” He has his head cocked to side, caught halfway between pity and disbelief.

Beau sighs heavily, leaning slightly against the wall. Now that she’s out of the rain, the wet clothes are incredibly uncomfortable, and she’s realizing just how _cold_ it is out there. “Yeah, I, uh…” she trails off uselessly, shrugging her shoulders.

“What _happened_ to you?” Molly asks. He almost looks appalled.

Beau refocuses at that, snapping slightly of her daze. She takes a moment to think of a believable lie, but she’s _tired_. “Got in a fight with my dad,” she grumbles. She swears that she sees Molly’s face soften.

“You need something to wear? That looks miserable.” He gestures vaguely to her drenched tank top.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He leaves without a word and disappears down a short hallway and into one of the adjoining rooms, where Beau sees the corner of a bed through the cracked door. After a minute or so of rooting around, he comes out with a bundle of cloth. “This one’s big on Yasha, it’ll basically be a dress on you.” 

“Thanks,” she mumbles, taking the shirt from his hands. She pauses for a second, looking around.

“Bathroom’s over there.” Molly points and Beau follows sheepishly, quickly ducking through the door and shutting it behind her.

This is so, so fucking weird.

She takes a shaky breath and glances in the mirror above the sink, wincing a little when she sees just how terrible she looks. Her hair has nearly fallen out of it’s loose bun, and strands of it are sticking to her face, clammy skin streaked with rain. It’s pathetic.

Beau absently starts stripping off her wet clothes, struggling as they cling to her body. Being nearly naked in an unfamiliar bathroom is wholly uncomfortable, and she’d rather have it over as soon as possible. There’s a shelf with a couple of folded towels, and she uses one to dry herself off as much as she can before slipping the oversized t-shirt over her head.

Molly wasn’t kidding when he said it was big; the hem is only a few inches from her knees. It’s plain grey and surprisingly soft, with a smell that’s distinctively Yasha. She tries to fold her wet clothes, but it turns out to be more a messy pile that she leaves sitting on the counter to deal with later.

She tentatively steps out of the bathroom, slightly self-conscious about being in nothing but a t-shirt, and Molly’s lounging on the couch. He perks up when he sees her, a smirk crossing his face. “Well, you look like a drowned rat.”

“Fuck off,” Beau mutters, and takes a seat on the floor, her back again one of the arms of the couch. 

“So, get kicked out?” He twists his body so he’s laying on his stomach, face peeking over the arm to look down at her. 

“No,” she groans, eyes closed, “I just left.” She realizes how _stupid_ that sounds after she says it. There’s a few seconds of silence, and Beau’s grateful for the lack of prying. She breaks it with, “So, where’s Yasha?”

“She does this when it rain,” Molly says nonchalantly.

“Scared of storms?” She didn’t strike Beau as the fearful type.

“Opposite. Loves ‘em.” He quiets down for a second, cocking his head to the side. “Sounds like it’s almost over. She should be back soon.”

“ _Great_ ,” Beau mutters to herself. Being around Molly is humiliating enough.

He leaves her alone after that, just laying on the couch in silence. Beau still has her head pressed against the side, eyes shut, just taking it in.

Despite being in a strange place with someone she barely knows, she feels comfortable. The contrast of the soft, warm clothes on her cold body is doing wonders, and Molly must have the heat turned up because the apartment is _warm_. She could probably go to sleep like this, and she kind of wants to. 

Fifteen minutes pass, then thirty, all with Molly intermittently humming under his breath and Beau fighting to keep from dozing off. The sound of the rain slows to a drizzle, then a quiet drip, and then silence. 

Molly startles her out of her stupor by suddenly hopping up and loudly saying, “I’m going for a smoke. Come with?”

Beau nods, dazed, and tries to pretend like she wasn’t just napping. “Can’t you just smoke in here?” Her voice is groggy and deeper than usual.

“Nah, Gustav doesn’t like it.”

“Gustav?”

“He’s like…” Molly pauses a second to contemplate, “One part dad, one part landlord. Owns the place, doesn’t rent it out, houses a bunch of fuck-up kids he technically adopted. Mostly lets me do what I want, _except_ smoking inside.”

Beau blinks rapidly, trying to process everything Molly just said _very quickly_. “A bunch of kids live here?”

“Well, not _that_ many,” Molly says, extending a hand to help her up. “Me and Yasha in this one, the twins upstairs, and then Toya.”

“Right. Cool.”

“Come on, sleeping beauty,” Molly says, and then grins wide. “Beau-ty. Get it?”

“Right, cause I haven’t heard that one before,” Beau grumbles, and she follows him out a door in the side of the apartment that leads to a short corridor. Confusion sets in as Molly bolts for the flight of stairs, and Beau quickly follows.

“Where are we going?” She asks, nearly on the second floor.

“The roof, duh.”

Right. Of course, why would she expect anything else? Sure enough, on the second floor there’s another set of stairs leading up to a door that takes them onto the flat roof of the building, still slick with rain. The night air is cold, stinging Beau’s bare legs. Molly seems fine, still wearing his ridiculous coat.

Beau snorts a laugh, realizing that he just wears the thing around the house, where it’s too warm to warrant it. He walks near the edge of the building, glancing out over the lip, and sits down without regard for the moisture on the ground.

Beau follows suit, sitting cross-legged behind him. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag and exhaling smoke into the still air. He turns to her, deep red eyes catching the moonlight through ragged clouds. “Want one?”

“I don’t smoke,” Beau says, a little quizzically.

“Ever tried?”

She hasn’t; it’s something she’s thought about, but never seemed worth picking up. “Honestly, they’ve always seemed kinda gross.”

“Suit yourself,” Molly says with a shrug.

Beau pauses for a second, tossing what she’s about to say around in her head, trying to decide whether or not it’s too personal. “You can smell those things from twenty feet away. I gotta be more sneaky than that.”

Molly takes interest in that; she can see it in the way his tail just slightly twitches. If he’s curious, he doesn’t want her to know, because he drops it there and finishes his cigarette.

They sit in comfortable silence, Beau gazing at the stars, somehow so much brighter from up here. The clouds have begun dispersing, leaving grey wisps across the night sky. The crisp smell of rain is intoxicating.

Molly puts his cigarette out on the ground and turns to her, head cocked curiosly to the side. He looks like he’s trying to figure something out, some puzzle. Eventually, he breaks the silence. “Can I show you something?”

“Sure,” Beau says hesitantly.

He grabs the edge of his elaborate coat and pulls it back, along with the hem of his shirt. The moonlight reveals a swath of purple skin laced with thick scar tissue, pale and raised all across Molly’s shoulder, creeping towards his back, running down the small section of exposed chest.

That’s a lot to take in. That’s a _lot_. There are so many scars, and they look old; he must’ve been young, and shit, that makes it worse. Beau feels bile rise in the back of her throat and she swallows it down, straightening her back.

“Oh, god, Molly, I’m sorry,” she says, unable to think of anything else. 

“Don’t be,” he says, and his smirk is there, he’s laughing, and he lets the coat fall back into place to cover his scarred torso. He smiles, wide. “I don’t remember where I got them.”

Beau cocks her head, torn for a moment between curiosity and her instinct not to pry. She ignores it. “Don’t remember?”

Molly turns his head and chuckles, his breath coming out in puffs in the cold air. The silvery moonlight reflects off his red eyes as she stares up into the sky again. “I don’t remember...anything, anything from before this–” he extends his hand to gesture towards the roof they’re sitting on “–before Gustav, before this family. A few years, that’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s...I...” Beau trails off and looks away, unsure of what to say.

“Don’t say you’re sorry, or pity me, or whatever—I think it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t _want_ to know where these come from, I don’t need to.” He runs a finger along one of the long, winding scars. He scoots closer to her, wearing a wistful grin. “Pity yourself, if anything. You’ve got ‘em too.”

“Molly, what are you–”

He reaches out a hand towards her shoulder, quick and fluid, and the words die on her lips when she instinctively flinches away. He gives her a knowing glance, and gently taps her on the forehead as her shoulders slowly relax.

“In there. Just as real. Hell, more—you know where yours came from.”

Beau is quiet for a long, long time, and Molly joins in her that silence. She tilts her head backward, staring pointedly at the dark, star-speckled sky. She’s picking through a multitude of thoughts, a whole host of different threads that squirm around in her mind.

It’s a relief to have someone that understands. It’s terrifying to have someone who knows. Beau is not good at being vulnerable, she wants to retreat, wants to get away and make a new, tougher shell.

This is the first time she’s ever gotten the sense that Molly actually likes her, that he’s not just tolerating her presence. Beau doesn’t _care_ if people like her, she never has, and yet now it’s exhilarating, the approval. She wants to understand _why_ , when he’d decided she wasn’t just some asshole, when she’d done the same.

It’s Molly who finally breaks the silence. “You know, she never shuts up about you.”

“Who?”

“Yasha.”

Beau feels a blush color her cheeks, and she turns her head away. “Bullshit,” she manages after a few moments, “You’re fucking with me.”

Molly smirk and crawls the few inches to the edge of the roof, looking over it without fear of the height. “She’s home, wanna ask?”

Beau jolts, suddenly alert, and joins him over by the edge. Yasha’s walking up the driveway, her hair hanging in front of her pale face, looking like she’s soaked through with rain. 

“Stop staring,” Molly says, slapping Beau on the back. He extends a hand to help her up and she takes it wordlessly.

She feels like a ghost as she follows him down the stairs and corridors, not all the way there, just slightly detached from her body. It’s not altogether unpleasant, just _strange_ , strange how she feels like a piece of her is still up on the roof watching the way the gentle moonlight catches everything, makes it sparkle with a faint silver outline.

Yasha’s just about to turn into her room when they get downstairs, Molly making a loud entrance and Beau following sheepishly behind. Yasha’s eyes lock on to her immediately and widen with surprise.

She seems conflicted about what to say for a moment, finally settling on, “Is that my shirt?”

Molly grins wickedly, stepping to the side so that Beau is in full view, blushing awkwardly. She panics for a moment, and silence fills the room with Molly looking expectantly between the two of them.

“What are you doing here?” Yasha asks bluntly, and now that she’s up close it’s easy to see that she’s been out in the storm. She doesn’t have the same drowned rat look that Beau did; this seems intentional, not even an inconvenience. It almost looks natural on her.

Beau sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Long story. Got caught in the rain.”

“Oh,” Yasha says quietly, “Sorry. Um, keep it.”

“What?”

“The shirt, I mean, it looks...good on you.” She grins awkwardly, more baring her teeth than anything. “I gotta go change,” she says quickly, darting towards the door and shutting it softly behind her.

Molly bursts into laughter, taking a moment to steady himself on the wall while staring at Beau with a wide grin. 

“Shut up, asshole,” Beau grumbles, punching in the shoulder. It’s light enough so that it shouldn’t hurt _too_ bad, but she takes a little satisfaction in the slight wince. 

“I thought I’d met the most awkward human being on the planet when Yasha came around,” Molly says through giggles, his tail swishing playfully behind him.

Beau flops down on the couch, suddenly aware of how tired she is, and her distinct lack of pants. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, trying to relax her shoulders. “You are such a dick, you know that.”

“Says the person crashing on my couch.”

“I’m not crashing,” Beau protests, “I’m gonna go in a few.”

“It’s pretty dark outside,” Molly says.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I just need a couple minutes.”

“Whatever you say. Goodnight,” he says, sing-song.

She can hear Molly leave, footsteps carrying down the short hallway where Yasha’s room is. She feels like her shoulders have melted into the couch, the cushions much softer than they have any right to be. She needs to get up and start walking, but it’s such a long way, and she’s so _tired_.

Just before she falls asleep, Beau can hear more faint footsteps, and she feels something soft being draped over her. On instinct she pulls the blanket up to her chin and snuggles into the couch, and then everything is dark, and quiet, and she’s asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little bit long to make up for the short chapter last time and also like...shit actually happens lmao. God bless Mollymauk, am I right?


	9. Chapter 9

Yasha shuts her door with a quiet click and stands with her back to it for a moment, just breathing. That was a lot. A lot of things just happened, and she needs to make sense of them.

Beau’s here. She’s standing there on the other side of the doorway, in Yasha’s living room, wearing her shirt and listening to Molly laugh his ass off. Molly is _still_ laughing his ass off, the sound carrying easily through the wall.

She takes a deep breath, and focuses on the moment. She needs to get dressed, to change out of her wet clothes. The storm was refreshing—sitting outside on the damp grass while the rain poured in sheets and lightning cracked above—but now that it’s over she just feels tired. 

Yasha admits, she spends longer picking out what to wear than she needs to. She’s wearing her least ratty pyjamas, which isn’t saying much; a loose-fitting pair of flannel pants and her least wrinkled t-shirt. It’s comfortable, if anything, and hell, Beau’s wearing nothing but a long shirt (and _god_ , that’s more fascinating than it should be), so there’s not a high bar.

She can hear Molly’s door open across the hallway, and that’s a small comfort, that at least he’s not there to tease her. She takes a deep breath and creaks the door open, stepping lightly outside and peaking around the corner.

She sees Beau, laying on her side on the couch, eyes closed and breathing slow. She’s asleep. Of course.

Yasha sighs and stands there for a moment, unsure of what to do now, but she catches the slight glint of Beau’s hair, still damp, in the light, and the way she’s curled the maximize contact with the plush couch. She’s cold.

Yasha’s shoulders sag with a sigh and she retreats to her room. She knows there’s a spare blanket somewhere—stashed in the closet, forgotten in all but the coldest parts of winter. She doesn’t really get cold, that’s more Molly’s thing (tieflings, he tells her, runs in their blood). She roots through and finds it folded under a stack of discarded books. It’s soft and blue, just big enough that should cover the whole couch.

Yasha steps out of her room again, careful to be quiet, and this time she gets a good look at Beau’s sleeping face. She looks relaxed, so much softer than usual. One hand twitches as Yasha approaches and she freezes, but Beau shifts and becomes still again.

Yasha carefully drapes the blanket over her, and Beau quickly pulls it up and nestles into it, making a soft hum of contentment. Yasha stays, frozen, for a moment, but it seems like she’s out.

She makes her way back to the hallway and lightly raps a knuckle on Molly’s door. He answers with his head cocked to the side, a smirk making its way across his features.

“Beau is, uh, passed out on our couch,” Yasha says, making a point to keep her voice down.

“Yeah, figures,” Molly sighs.

“I gave her a blanket?”

Molly grins widely at that, clapping her on the shoulder. “Look at you! Miss hospitality.”

“Why is she in our house?”

The smile falters and Molly’s face falls into something more serious, and Yasha feels a sudden sense of worry bubbling in her stomach. He motions her inside and she follows wordlessly, letting him shut the door softly behind her. 

“She wouldn’t tell me much, just that she got in a fight with her dad,” Molly says, and there is a familiar flash of anger in his eyes. 

“Did she win?” 

He chuckles and sits on the side of his bed with a sigh. “It’s not the kind of fight you win, dear.”

“Oh. Uh, why’d she come here?” Yasha leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Showed up at the door asking for you,” Molly says with a devilish grin, his nose wrinkled and teeth set apart.

Yasha blushes a faint pink, turning her eyes to the ground. “That doesn’t mean anything, she just hates me less.”

“Ha! That’s certainly one way to put it,” he laughs, tail swishing behind him. “But really–” he drops back to his serious expression, “–I don’t think she had anywhere else to go.”

“Kicked out?” Yasha asks quietly.

“No. Said she just left.” Molly shrugs, dramatically flopping backwards with his arms spread. 

“Are you worried about her?” Yasha takes a few steps forward, enough to see Molly’s face as he lay on his back.

“Not any more than I should be,” he says dismissively, but his face betrays something different. Yasha is not good at reading people, but Molly is clear to her, time and closeness allowing her to understand the meaning in every crease of his brow. He’s worried, a _lot_.

“Alright,” she says, unwilling to pry any more. Molly sits up and smiles—soft, reassuring.

“Night, Yasha,” he says, reaching over to pat her on the arm.

Yasha grins softly, nudging him back. “Night, Molly.” 

She leaves without another word, sparing a glance towards the living room before returning to her door. She’s tired, now, and after the rain and conversation she just wants to sleep. All the worries in the back of her head are a problem for morning Yasha. She flicks off her light and settles into bed with that as a comfort.

 

Beau wakes up and her arm is numb as _fuck_. She shifts uncomfortably, trying to get rid of the gross pins-and-needles feeling, and is jolted when her leg slips off the side of whatever it is she’s laying on, which is _definitely_ not her bed.

She sits up blearily and opens her eyes to an unfamiliar room, and then the events of the previous night come rushing back to her. She sinks back down into the couch, pulling the blanket over her head with a groan. 

There’s sunlight coming in through the windows, and Beau wonders what fucking _time_ it is. She reaches for her phone to check, but it’s nowhere near, and she’s wearing nothing but a t-shirt (Yasha’s, she abruptly remembers). Right. She left her phone in the wet pockets of her sweat pants, somewhere in Molly’s bathroom. _Fuck_.

She peaks her head over the side of the couch and looks around. The apartment is silent, no sign of movement. It’s definitely far past the time school would’ve started, and she wonders with a stab of worry if they just left her here.

Beau tentatively stands up and walks over to the bathroom door; it’s just as she left it, now dry clothes in a loose bundle on the counter. She digs through her pockets for her phone, in its case and seemingly untouched by the rain. It’s nearly half past nine.

There’s about twenty missed calls, too, all from her dad, and a few texts on top of it. She listens to two of the six voicemails and decides she gets the gist—”Where are you, what are you doing, come home, we’re worried sick.” She weighs whether or not to reply in her head for a few minutes before putting the phone down. She turns to glance in the mirror, looking a true mess—her hair nearly falling out of its loose bun, bags under her eyes. Beau lets her hair down and runs her fingers through it a few times, turns on the water and splashes some on her face. At least she feels more awake now.

She steps out of the bathroom and sighs, returning aimlessly to the couch. She could try to powernap through the rest of the day—even though she’s not particularly tired. It sounds better than wandering around Molly and Yasha’s house without them.

It’s as she’s contemplating this that she hears the creak of a door, and jumps to see Molly sticking his head out into the hallway. A wide, mischievous smile spreads across his face as he sees her peering over the back of the couch. He turns his head towards the other door across the hallway and shouts, “Hey, she’s awake!”

There’s a quiet rustling of movement before Yasha emerges, still dressed in her pajamas. Beau sags further into the couch. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” She groans.

“Well _somebody_ wanted to sleep in,” Molly says, giving Beau a pointed look. He strolls into the living room with a smugness that’s absolutely uncalled for, and Beau wrinkles her nose at him. He sticks his tongue out, then turns away and into the kitchen area, separated from the living room by little more than the hardwood floor turning to tile. 

Yasha’s still hovering awkwardly at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, and Beau sinks farther down on the couch to avoid eye contact. She feels absolutely fucking _miserable_ , her head cloudy like the beginnings of a cold. The last thing she wants to deal with right now is getting sick, but it’s what she gets for pulling something so stupid. 

“Hungry?” Molly calls from the kitchen, and Beau can’t tell who he’s talking to. He’s rooting through the fridge, tail swishing behind him, and Yasha takes the opportunity to quickly join him. 

Beau watches as Molly pulls a few things out—eggs, milk, butter—and starts digging around in the pantries. “I’m making pancakes, you can come get some if you want,” he calls over his shoulder.

Somehow, it’s never clicked that Molly knows how to cook, but of course he does—he complains about the kitchen at the diner all the time. They hired him as a waiter, but more often he’s started taking over for the cooks. She’s curious if he’s any good.

Yasha mostly watches, occasionally handing him something. He hums softly as he cooks, a song Beau doesn’t recognize, but it sounds pleasant. It’s almost enough to put her back to sleep. 

This is an atmosphere she could get used to, she thinks, and enjoys it for a second before it makes her shift uncomfortably. This isn’t necessarily something she wants to get used to, to fall back on—that’s just a setup for pain in the future. It’s nice, now, though, and she’ll enjoy it while she can.

The kitchen smells lovely by the time Molly’s done, and Beau realizes how _hungry_ she is. She eyes him putting plates down at the small table in the middle of the room and springs up to join them. 

There’s four chairs, and Molly and Yasha are seated across from each other. That leaves Beau taking one of the seats between, awkwardly interrupting the comfortable silence. The food looks _good_ , light and fluffy pancakes with strawberries on top.

“How nice of you to join us,” Molly says with a slight, playful sneer, resting his cheek on his hand with his elbows on the table.

Beau hesitantly grabs a plate and a small stack of pancakes, averting her eyes from Molly. Yasha’s already eating without regard for either of them. Beau takes a bite, and they are _infuriatingly_ good. Molly can see it in her eyes and a smug grin crawls across his face.

“You cook a lot?” Beau asks, trying to break the silence.

“All the fucking time,” Molly says, leaning so far back in his chair that it threatens to tip over, “For myself, though? Barely any.”

“All he knows how to do is breakfast,” Yasha says, a faint smile on the edge of her lips. 

“That is not true!” Molly crows defensively, “Breakfast is just my _specialty_.”

Beau mumbles approvingly through another mouthful of pancakes. She likes watching the banter between them—it’s a side of Yasha she doesn’t get to see often, something clever and playful.

Molly eats quickly, finishing before either of them are halfway through, and he loudly scrapes his chair backwards as he stands up. “Well, you two have fun,” he says, sticking his plate in the sink, “I have assignments that were due yesterday to do.”

He quickly disappears into his room, leaving Beau alone with Yasha, who’s staring owlishly at the chair he left empty.

“Molly does homework?” Beau asks incredulously.

Yasha narrows her eyes. “No?”

“Huh.” They lock eyes and quickly look away, both suddenly absorbed in their food. 

The distraction can only last so long before the silence becomes unbearable. “So, why’d you guys stay home again?”

Yasha seems caught off guard by the question, hesitating for a moment before responding in her soft voice, “Oh, uh, Molly figured you wouldn’t be up for it.”

“He sure seems obsessed with being a good host,” Beau mutters, poking at the last bits of strawberry on her plate.

Yasha grins, warm and genuine, “He likes being nice.”

“Really,” Beau laughs, a wide smile cracking across her face, “Cause he’s a huge asshole.”

Yasha chuckles, but doesn’t say anything in response. Beau continues, “Doesn’t explain why you’re here though.”

“Oh.” There’s that mild panic again, the half-trapped animal look that Yasha gets in her eyes when asked a question she doesn’t want to answer. “Well, I just, you fell asleep right after I got home last night, so we didn’t get the chance to…” 

“Oh.” Beau swears her voice comes out an octave higher than normal. “Well, I should, uh, I should go, at some point.”

“Not right now,” Yasha says quickly, then catches herself, looking away.

“Yeah, no, not right now,” Beau says quietly. She takes a deep breath and stands up, putting her plate in the sink next to Molly’s. She’s suddenly aware of how loud the clinking of the dishes is, how _quiet_ the room feels when not filled with conversation. 

“Um, sorry I fell asleep on your couch,” she starts, leaning back against the counter in a facsimile of casualness. 

“No, it’s alright, Molly said you had a rough night,” Yasha says, turning slightly to look at her. 

“Oh,” Beau murmurs, nervously flexing her fingers, “Yeah, I guess. Uh, what’d he say?”

“Something about your dad?” Yasha says with an air of inquisition, a gentle curiosity.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Beau says, and she considers leaving it at that, but she adds, “He just, uh, gets real loud and it’s fucking annoying.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Yasha stands up, slightly uncomfortable, and passes close to Beau as she puts her dishes in the sink. She absentmindedly turns the water on and starts washing them.

Beau feels a little shitty, but she’s not sure what the proper etiquette is. She’s not really one for hanging out at friends’ houses—or hanging out at all. Yasha doesn’t seem to mind, either way, so that’s a relief.

Beau tilts her head back, still leaning on the counter. The lull in conversation is less awkward with the sound of the running water, and she takes the time to look over Yasha’s face, relaxed in her concentration. It’s nice to just look.

It takes a minute or so for Yasha to catch her staring. She meets Beau’s eyes and cocks her head curiously, and Beau quickly looks away with an embarrassed blush. There’s an prolonged silence as she shuts the water off and wipes the plates with a towel.

She’s putting them up in one of the cabinets when she turns to Beau and says, “I’ve never seen you with your hair down before.”

That catches her off guard and she sputters for a moment before Yasha quickly adds, “It, uh, looks nice. I mean, I also like it up, it looks good both ways, but, it looks good. Down.”

“Thanks?” 

“I’m, uh, gonna go to the living room now.” Yasha quickly makes her way of the kitchen, which really isn’t saying much given how connected the two rooms are. Beau follows slowly behind, quickly ducking into the bathroom to grab her phone.

There’s been one more missed called since she last checked it, this time from her mom’s number. She debates answering, sending some kind of, “It’s cool, I’m not dead,” text, but on the other hand, it’s fun to see them squirm.

Ultimately, it’ll be harder on her the longer she keeps them waiting. She starts begrudgingly typing out a text to her mom.

_Beau: Stop calling me I’m fine_

She should probably put her pants back on. They’re dry, even though they still smell like rain, but it’s not a big deal. She rolls her eyes as her phone buzzes on the counter while she shrugs them on.

_Mom: Where are you?  
Come home right now. _

Yeah, that’s about what she expected. 

_Beau: I’ll be home after school._

She knows that’s a little misleading, and they’ll know she isn’t in class, but she really doesn’t want to be home right now. This gives her a good few hours before she has to _deal_ with everything, before the real consequences of her stupid outburst catch up to her. She sighs and pockets the phone, ignoring the next buzz as she walks out of the bathroom.

Yasha’s huddled to one side of the couch, looking at her phone, and she snaps her head up when the door opens. Given there’s no other seats in the living room, Beau takes the other side of the couch, keeping a comfortable distance between them. 

It takes a while to strike up a decent conversation, starting slow and awkward, both of them stumbling through topics that somehow run dry a few sentences in. But it slowly gets better, gradually slipping into a continuous conversation. Beau gets more comfortable and falls into her usual loud demeanor, gesticulating wildly with her words, with Yasha much more quiet and reserved in comparison.

Beau doesn’t realize it, but they talk for what must be a few hours, skipping around topics. They’re interrupted by the loud sound of a door opening as Molly emerges from his room, grinning widely. 

“You two having fun?” He asks, just as they both peek over the back of the couch sheepishly. 

“Yeah, you get any work done?” Beau shoots back, delighting in the sneer Molly gives her in return.

“With how loud you are? Barely.” He struts over and leans over the back of the couch, in the middle of the (considerably narrower) gap between them. 

“Fuck off,” Beau says.

Molly flips her off and stands back up. “Care if I join you?”

“Course not,” Yasha says.

Just as quick, Beau says, “Three people are _not_ fitting on this fucking couch.”

“Then get off my fucking couch?”

Beau narrows her eyes, but she’s unable to think of something snappy to say back. She begrudgingly stands up and sits cross-legged on the floor while Molly takes her spot, smug smile spread across his face.

She turns to Yasha, and any cheap shot is worth it with Molly here to offend. “I could fit in your lap.” She lays it on far too thick, with the wide smile and lidded eyes that she knows from experience makes her look insincere.

Yasha blushes anyway, and Molly fake gags. “I’ve been out here for a _minute_ , calm down,” he groans.

The conversation is certainly more lively with Molly there, both him and Beau trying to rile each other up. Yasha’s amused if anything, content to sit out for the most part and observe, adding her two cents when necessary.

With the occasional gaps and lulls, the next few hours pass, and Beau becomes increasingly conscious of the fact that she needs to leave soon. She doesn’t _want_ to—this is good, fun, a kind of relaxed she can rarely afford to be. Her shoulders feel _phenomenal_ , relieved of their usual tension, and she feels it’ll be even harder to go back after this.

“I should get walking soon,” she finally says during a slight lull, pulling out her phone to check the time, “I’m gonna be fucked if I don’t get home in a few.”

“You sure?” Molly asks, with a hesitancy in his voice that speaks volumes. 

“Yeah,” Beau says as she stands up, pulling back her shoulders until she hears to the soft staccato _pop_ of her back cracking. “Fun, though.”

“Any time,” Molly says, serious, genuine. 

Beau takes a step towards the bathroom. “You, uh–” she pulls on the hem of the too-big shirt, “–want this back? Mine is still in there.”

“No, really, keep it,” Yasha says, looking straight at the floor. “Do you, um, do you want me to drive you?”

“Thought you said your car doesn’t work?”

“Doesn’t work _sometimes_. I’m feeling a little lucky today.”

Beau smirks and nods, quickly darting into the bathroom to grab her tank top. She hears Molly call to Yasha, “I’ll stay here, call me in case she decide _not_ to work.”

Yasha disappears into her room for a moment to get her keys and they step out the door together, waving a quick goodbye to Molly. 

It really is an old, _shitty_ truck. The paint job looks worse for wear, and the hood is a slightly different color than the rest of the pale red body. As Yasha unlocks it, it has that wet car smell like rain had leaked in all throughout last night.

“Where the fuck did you get this thing?” Beau asks incredulously.

“It used to be Gustav’s. Don’t know where he got it, but it was _really_ cheap.” She turns the key and the engine sputters to life, seeming to struggle for a moment.

It’s a bit of a bumpy ride, given the thing _rattles_ , but Yasha’s a decent driver, and she easily follows Beau’s directions. She’s not much of a talker, instead staring serenely ahead of her, relaxed in the driver’s seat. Driving seems natural to her.

It doesn’t take long before they pull up in front of Beau’s house, and she feels her stomach drop. She hadn’t been looking forward to it, of course, but actually _seeing_ the place made it feel much more real. She takes a deep breath and opens the door, casting a sparing glance at Yasha before she slides out of the seat.

“Bye,” Yasha says quietly with a small wave.

“See ya,” Beau mumbles and she shuts the door behind her, sighing as she turns to face her front yard.

She walks up to the door, morosely listening to the sound of Yasha’s truck rattling away in the distance. Her house has never seemed so imposing, so uninviting. She opens to front door and, compared to the gentle warmth of Molly and Yasha’s, it’s never seemed so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is coming out a little late, but it's still friday in my timezone! It's summer, y'all, the executive dysfunction is real.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s not quite 3pm yet, so Beau’s dad isn’t home when she walks in the door, but he will be within the hour. Dealing with him and her mother separately is probably a good thing.

She can hear her mom stirring as soon as the door opens—footsteps from upstairs, rapidly approaching. She swallows and readies herself, unsure what to expect. Mom’s always been tricky, unpredictable.

They lock eyes as she's at the top of the stairs, and she freezes for a moment, all hesitance instead of the expected driven anger. There’s a tense silence as neither of them know what to do, unsure of how to interact without the guiding anger of Beau’s father. 

“Where’ve you been?” She asks sharply as she reaches the bottom, words like cold metal.

Beau runs a quick calculation of the benefits of lying, but finds it comes up short. Even if she tells the truth, though, she only needs to say so much. “Friend’s place.”

“What friend?” That’s a familiar, biting question, one that feels good now. Beau fights the urge to smile smugly.

“School friends,” Beau says tersely, squaring her shoulders. She starts for the stairs, hoping her faux confidence will carry her through.

“You could’ve gotten hurt,” her mom says, slightly shifting to block her from accessing the staircase. Fuck.

“Yeah, but I didn’t. No big deal.” She freezes there in the middle of the foyer, unsure of what her next move should be.

Her mom sighs, some of the tension dropping from her shoulder. “We’ll discuss this when your father gets home.”

It sounds like a threat. Beau knows it is. Her mom heads back up the stairs and Beau lingers for a few quiet moments before following behind, darting quickly towards her room.

Things feel a little better there, in the safe familiarity, but now the panic is really starting to set in. She doesn’t have much time, thirty minutes at most, before she’ll be confronted by her screaming, guilt-tripping, _furious_ dad. She doesn’t have anything for him to take, really, but she’s sure he’ll come up with _something_.

If she faces him head on, it’ll be better. She knows this, after years of experience, but it still feels wrong. She wants to find a way to weasel out of it—sneak out the window and disappear back to Molly’s, lock her door and not come out until he’s burnt himself out. All that’ll do is delay the inevitable, but damn does she want it delayed.

She takes a deep breath and sits down on her bed. Getting worked up about it won’t do anything, she just has to take this, deal with it. It’s her own damn fault for storming out. As her heartbeat is slowing, she feels her phone buzzing in her pocket, and is grateful for the distraction.

_Jester: I can’t believe you guys had a sleepover without me >:( _

Right in the groupchat. Beau barely has time to wonder who the _fuck_ told Jester (Molly, she knows, had to have been Molly) before more messages start coming in.

_Molly: I’d hardly call it a sleepover_

_Yasha: What qualifies as a sleepover?_

_Molly: It has to be fun_

_Yasha: I had fun_

_Beau: Fuck off Molly it was not a sleepover_

_Jester: You guys are just trying to make me feel better :(((  
Invite me to your next sleepover okay  
I’ll bring snack and everything  
And Fjord and Nott can come!_

_Molly: I don’t think our apartment is big enough_

_Fjord: Yeah Jester that’s a lot of people_

_Jester: WE CAN HAVE IT AT MY HOUSE_

_Molly: Sounds like a plan_

_Fjord: Yeah I guess_

_Jester: We’re gonna have a pillow fight and I can show you my room and all my stuff  
And I’ll call my mom and get her to say hi to everybody!  
It’s gonna be so fun you guys!!_

_Fjord: Can’t wait._

_Yasha: That sounds nice, Jester._

It _does_ sound nice, despite how much Beau claims to hate sleepovers. She’s smiling in spite of herself, in spite of the mountain of worry weighing her shoulders down. She quietly watches her friends bicker for a while, occasionally interjecting, losing herself in what feels like a separate world. 

The pleasant illusion is shattered when she hears the sharp sound of the door opening, followed by familiar heavy footsteps. 

Beau: See you guys later

Jester: Bye beau!!

The phone buzzes a couple more times, but she doesn’t check, tossing it on her bed as she waits to see how this will unfold. 

“Beauregard!” His voice carries easily through the house, sharp and clear.

She freezes for a moment, safe in her room, and takes a deep breath. The only way out is through. She opens the door and starts towards the stairs, taking slow, deliberate steps.

This is a different, rarer anger, she can tell as soon as she sees him. He is _angry_ , but he’s disheveled. Worried. Those blue eyes lack their usual glint of cruelty. 

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and he’s there, tense and coiled. He moves forward suddenly and Beau flinches instinctively before she realizes that he’s hugging her, wiry strong arms wrapped around her torso. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again.”

This feels wrong, like a poorly delivered line from a bad movie, like he’s reading from a script and can’t quite nail the tone. It catches her off guard, this rare moment of attempted affection. She doesn’t know how to respond so she doesn’t, just stares dumbfounded as her father pulls away from her and straightens his back.

“Your mother and I are discussing your punishment.” There’s a sick sort of comfort as he slips back into the familiar cold anger. 

She knew, in the back of her head, there would be some sort of punishment. Warranting a discussion is something that's worrying. She’s still at a loss for words, stuck in place and waiting for the silence to be filled.

“I’m glad you’re home safe,” he continues, and it sounds like a threat. There’s something distinctly horrifying about this uncanny valley of a conversation, the words of a loving father all there and blended into meaningless pulp by tone and body language. It is a fiction so far removed from reality that it becomes warped beyond recognition. Beau swallows dryly. 

“Thanks,” she says, terse, too aggressive. Her father bristles, just slightly, eyes squinting and fingers flexing. She’s scared and he can see it, looking right into her big, wide eyes, watching the way her shoulders tense like she’s a second from running. His face twitches, a slight uptick of the corner of his mouth, a slight wrinkle of the nose. Satisfaction.

Beau’s shoulders relax, just a little. This is still the man she knows, the simple creature whose motivations she knows like the back of her hand. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” he says, level, cruelty evident in his tone.

“Sure,” Beau murmurs, and she takes a hesitant step back. There’s no reaction. She continues up the stairs at a pace as normal as she can muster, and she can hear her dad turn and head towards the kitchen without another word.

Beau gets to her room and shuts the door, instinctively locking it. She sits, dazed, on her bed and stares at the ceiling. 

Everything feels wrong, shifted two inches to the left, familiar but warped into a caricature of itself. This is not how an argument is supposed to go; that could hardly even be called an _argument_. This isn't the first time Beau has stormed out of the house—it’s just the first time she hasn’t come back the same night.

Maybe she scared them? The idea of her parents being genuinely concerned for her safety feels unnatural, no matter how likely true. The vague promise of her ‘punishment’ is also unsettling; the fact that it’s something that will take time to decide, when her father so often makes snap decisions.

She flexes her fingers, hands tingling with nervous energy. She'd been ready for an explosive fight, and all that adrenaline was left trapped after it fizzled. She absentmindedly cracks her knuckles, pops ringing loud through the silent room. It feels good, helps siphon off some of the restlessness. 

That cloudy, just-before-a-cold feeling is back, making her mind groggy even as her body crackles with energy. Beau swallows dryly, laying down on her bed and breathing in deeply, eyes trained on the ceiling. 

Six months until graduation in May. Whatever her dad cooks up, in six months, it’ll be irrelevant. She can do whatever she wants, go wherever she wants, when free from the shackles of school. There’s comfort in that, at least, and it carries her through the rest of the day.

 

The next morning, Beau has to reconcile with the fact that she is _definitely_ getting sick. She wakes with a general sense of malaise, her nose stopped up and throat just beginning to itch. It’s not _that_ bad, and she’d rather not risk further punishment for missing more school, so she knocks back some cold medicine and tries to push through it.

Pushing through it really means staying awake long enough to get to 1st period and immediately pass out on the desk, because _fuck that stuff makes you drowsy_. She wakes up maybe five minutes before class ends, feeling even worse, and stares blankly ahead as McCauly gives her detention.

“Thanks,” she mutters, absently taking the pink slip of paper from his hands. He looks confused for a moment, but doesn’t say anything. The bell rings and Beau switches her brain to autopilot, picking up her stuff and starting down the familiar route. 

She’s forcibly removed from her stupor by Yasha gently bumping her shoulder in the hallway. She has a hazy moment of searching for who the _fuck_ has the nerve to run into her, but once she sees Yasha’s gentle face looking down at her the indignant anger fades, and her shoulders drop.

“Tired?” Yasha asks, the hint of a grin playing at the edge of her features.

“Yeah,” Beau says dryly, then squints and looks closer. Yasha looks _fine_ , chipper even. “How the fuck did you stay out in the rain and not get sick?”

Yasha shrugs, looking a little confused. “Being in the rain makes you sick?”

Beau sighs, feeling the dull beginnings of a headache pulse in the back of her skull. “See ya,” she murmurs as she swings into the door of her next class. She just catches sight of Yasha awkwardly waving back before rejoining the throng of people.

The rest of her classes pass in a blur—she mostly manages to stay awake, if barely, although she definitely drones out everything she hears. The cough medicine drowsiness wears off pretty quick, although the malaise and headache stick with her. It feels like hours before lunch finally rolls around.

She takes her normal seat with the group, trying to look at least slightly normal. It takes all of five minutes for Molly to notice her sniffling, and his face breaks out into a wide grin.

“What’s wrong, Beau?” He asks, leaning over the table so she can’t avoid his eyes, “Catch a cold?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, putting her head in one hand.

“Aw, how’d that happen?”

“Shut up,” she groans, and she can feel the swishing of Jester’s amused tail in the air beside her. 

“You guys are so _mean_ ,” Jester scolds playfully, putting an arm around Beau’s shoulder. “Beau, you’re really stupid for walking through the rain.”

“Who told you guys about that?” 

“You did _what_?” Nott pipes up from the other side of the table, watching with intrigue. Beau remembers dully that she’s out of the loop of the group chat.

Jester pulls out her phone gleefully and navigates through her messages. “Molly said: ‘You’ll never believe who just showed up at my door looking like a drowned rat.’”

“Yeah, that’s pretty stupid,” Nott agrees, and Jester flashes her an excited grin.

“I was bored,” Beau defends weakly.

“I’m really just that charming,” Molly says with a shit-eating grin. 

“Eat a dick, Molly,” Beau mutters as her forehead drops onto the table, which is refreshingly cool.

“Any offers?” He stares directly at Fjord, who blushes dark green and looks away. 

“Come on, Fjord, isn’t Molly really hot?” Jester eggs, stretching to rest her chin on his shoulder.

“Jester,” he murmurs, eyes trained on the ground.

“Sorry, I don’t think he’s interested,” Jester whispers loudly at Molly seated across from her. They look absolutely _delighted_.

“I live in hell,” Beau groans, face still firmly on the table.

“That makes two of us,” Yasha adds, but she can’t hide her smile. 

“Aw, come on!” Molly says, nudging Yasha with his elbow, “Anyway, we all know who the _real_ charm is.”

Yasha falters as soon as everyone’s eyes turn towards her, and Beau lifts her head with a smile. “You’re not wrong,” she says, catching Yasha’s gaze just long enough to give her an exaggerated wink.

“Alright, take it somewhere else!” Molly protests. He pushes Yasha’s shoulder, hard, but she doesn’t budge.

“Fuck off,” Beau says, holding up her middle finger; Molly, and just about everyone else, rolls their eyes.

 

The day passes a little quicker after lunch ends, which Beau is glad for—she still feels like shit, but it weighs a little less heavy. She sighs with relief as the final bell rings, just in time to half-remember being given detention in the morning.

It’s not _that_ bad, just half an hour, but that may as well be eternity. She wants to go home and sleep through tonight and into the weekend. As far as she knows, nobody else has detention with her, and she hasn’t even _seen_ Caleb today. 

Skipping out on it is gonna be more trouble than it’s worth, so she sucks it up and goes anyway. Her board seems ten times heavier than usual as she pulls it out of her locker and drags it down the hallway with her.

The first pleasant surprise is seeing Caleb seated in his usual spot with Nott in the desk nearest; the second is noticing that, instead of book propped up on the desk, there’s a tan and black-spotted cat.

“Hello, Beauregard!” Caleb says, much more chipper than usual. The cat cocks its head at her, letting out a soft meow.

“What’s with the cat?” She asks, now noticing that Nott is eyeing it warily, ears flattened against the side of her head. 

“This is Frumpkin,” Caleb says plainly, “Do you want to pet him?”

“Yeah?” Beau says, because who _wouldn’t_. She walks over the desk and holds a hand out, watching excitedly as Frumpkin sniffs it and then gently headbutts her.

Getting approval from a cat shouldn’t feel this good, but Beau feels immense satisfaction as Frumpkin purrs and rubs the side of his body along her arm. She’s distracted for a few minutes of scratching behind his ears before she even remembers Caleb is there. “Where you been, man?”

“Had to take a few tests on campus today, but uh, I figured I’d have time to run by and get Frumpkin before detention. Everyone likes cats.”

Beau turns to Nott, still eyeing them suspiciously. “Do you wanna pet him?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine right here,” she says quickly, her shoulders hunching slightly as she sinks into the desk that's already too big for her. 

“Have you ever pet a cat before?” Beau asks.

Nott’s eyes flicker rapidly between Beau and Caleb before she slowly answers, “...no.”

“He’s very sweet,” Caleb says with a grin, but Nott doesn’t budge. 

“Suit yourself,” Beau says, shrugging. 

She remains unashamedly enraptured with Frumpkin for the next few minutes, only distracted by a couple of people entering the room.

Jester walks in with Molly and Yasha, Fjord trailing right behind them, which is a pleasant surprise. “When did you get detention?” She asks, cocking her head.

Molly shrugs. “When don’t I have detention?”

“I rearranged the encyclopedias in the library to spell out ‘eat my dick’,” Jester proudly proclaims.

“I promised Jester I’d hang out with her,” Fjord says, a little exasperated.

“Is that a cat?” Jester asks loudly, a smile splitting her face, ducking around to look at Frumpkin behind Beau. Frumpkin meows loudly in response, and leaps off the side of the desk to inspect the new people.

“Get that fuckin’ thing away from me,” Fjord says, taking a few steps back as Frumpkin happily trots towards him and Jester. 

Jester stoops down and picks Frumpkin up, holding him close to her chest. “Come on Fjord, look at him, he’s so cute!” 

“Nope!” Fjord says, quickly circling around her and standing at the far side of the room, “That little motherfucker is gonna kill me.”

“Fine!” Jester huffs, but her annoyance immediately melts as she presses a kiss to Frumpkin’s head and starts cooing.

“That is a really fuckin’ sociable cat,” Beau remarks, because she’s never seen one that likes being held that much.

“He’s very nice,” Caleb says proudly, showing genuine satisfaction that everyone's taken interest.

Yasha stands awkwardly to the side as Molly walks up to Jester and scratches Frumpkin behind the ear, a smile wide across his face. Nott watches, now looking more curious than scared.

“Yasha, you wanna hold him?” Molly asks.

“Uh, I don’t really...I mean, I’ve never–” As she stammers, Molly’s already eagerly scooping Frumpkin out of Jester’s arms and bringing him over.

“Come on, here, like this–” Molly shows Yasha how he’s holding him and then puts him in her arms, “–Yeah, that’s good, look! He likes you.”

Frumpkin rubs the side of his cheek on Yasha’s bicep as she cradles him, an uncertain smile beginning to creep across her face. “He’s very cute,” she says softly.

Beau’s heart swells because _god that’s cute_ , watching Yasha’s hesitance give way to soft, pure joy, gently holding Frumpkin in her big arms. 

“Why is he doing this?” Yasha asks, concerned, as Frumpking begins kneading her arm.

“He’s getting comfortable,” Caleb says, beaming, “It means he likes you.”

“Oh,” Yasha breathes with a faint smile, “It kinda hurts.”

Everybody giggles, and even Fjord cracks a smile from his spot leaning against the wall. Caleb, looking pleased with himself, reaches into one of his coat pockets and pulls out one of those feather-on-a-string cat toys. “You’ve got half an hour of Frumpkin time, go nuts.”

Jester’s eyes light up and she goes for the toy, waving it around in the air seemingly for her own amusement. Frumpkin catches sight of it and starts wiggling in Yasha’s arms, pupils widening as he locks on to the feather. Yasha puts him down, surprised as he leaps out of her arms about halfway to the ground.

Jester takes absolute delight in watching Frumpkin bat and chase the feather, getting him to zip around the room with seemingly endless energy. Near the end of it, when they somewhat reluctantly realize that detention is over, Beau’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Thank you for your cat, Caleb!” Jester calls, still bubbling with excited energy. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, petting Frumpkin on the desk in front of him.

Fjord gives Frumpkin a wide berth as he makes his way to the door, getting caught in a sneeze halfway through. He sniffles indignantly, trying not to make eye contact as Jester laughs. 

They slowly filter out of the room in a loose group, everyone wanting to hold on to the last couple minutes of the good atmosphere. 

“You know I’m holding you guys to that sleepover,” Jester says out of the blue, and everyone murmurs in agreement.

“Sleepover?” Nott asks.

“Oh yeah, that was in the groupchat, wasn’t it?” Beau says.

“We’re having a sleepover!” Jester cuts in excitedly.

“Uh, when?” Nott questions, looking a little confused as to what that means.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Jester mutters, looking down pensively, “Well, we’ll just have to figure out a time later, but it’s _totally_ going to happen and it’ll be really fun!”

“Alright,” Beau says, still not entirely convinced, “Can’t wait.”

They’ve reached the door by now, and they reluctantly part ways—Jester and Fjord going in one direction, Nott slipping off on her own, and Beau heading off with Molly and Yasha for as long as can. 

As soon as the others are gone, Molly nudges Beau with his elbow. “Happy is such a weird look on you,” he says, and points at the grin on his face, “Didn’t know you did this.” 

“Shut up, Molly,” Beau groans, “It was a fucking cat! Who doesn’t like cats?”

“Uh, Fjord?” Yasha says quizzically.

Beau smiles wide, feeling the twinge of soreness in the side of cheek but not caring. She feels too light to care, the heady warmth of a good time fighting back the haze of her cold. 

Eventually they hit the turn in the road where they need to part ways, unless Beau commits to following them to their doorstep. She considers it, but the walk already has her tired, and she doesn’t want to give her a dad a reason to snap at her.

“See ya,” she says faintly, hopping onto her board and giving a loose wave. They wave back, already turning to leave.

“Come over again sometime,” Yasha says, so quiet that Beau barely catches it.

“Yeah, I will,” she says back, and heads home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for being a little late in the day! My internet decided to go out while I was editing.  
> Wasn't the last episode of Critical role where they played with Frumpkin for the last half hour of the show great :')))


	11. Chapter 11

The cold, biting wind makes Nott shiver, even through the too-big jacket she nicked from the lost-and-found at school. There’s a sizeable halfling population here, but even clothes made for smaller folk don’t account for how thin and wiry she is. At least she can tuck her ears into the hood and hide her face in the shadows—she gets less strange looks on the street like that. She’s had the jacket for a week now, and she’s pretty sure she’d die without it. That’s how it always feels for her, after each little change—how did she possibly live without it? 

She walks the city streets like a ghost, a normal part of her routine. She doesn’t quite know why she does it; there’s nothing stopping her from holing up in an alley until the shelter opens. The movement feels good, she thinks, the possibility of seeing something new that might just bring about one of those unfathomable changes. She could find ten dollars on the street, a discarded hat on a bench, something shiny standing out on the sidewalk—the world is a treasure trove for those that only think to look. Today, she sees something different—she sees a cat. A familiar cat.

It’s definitely the same one. Frumpkin’s distinctive, every spot and stripe in place, with large pointed ears and eerily intelligent yellow eyes. He’s looking at Nott with his head cocked curiously, tail flicking back and forth behind him, sticking halfway out of an alleyway.

Nott doesn’t know a lot about cats. She’s seen them on the street before—in alleys, fighting, digging through trash, chasing mice and birds. It doesn’t look like there are any houses around, and she wonders if Frumpkin is lost.

Just as she’s considering it, he meows and darts off, dashing a good thirty feet before slowing to a lively trot. Without thinking about it, Nott follows at a brisk pace, trying not to startle him into running faster. He rotates his ears to pick up the sound of her footsteps, but doesn’t change his gait, continuing down the street as she trails behind. 

She follows him for a good while. He keeps up a steady pace, taking turns and detours without hesitation. It’s not easy to keep track of him—he navigates the street as a cat would, unimpeded by fences and small gaps—but she manages. He’s leading her somewhere more residential, a place she doesn’t frequent, and being unfamiliar with it makes her uneasy.

Frumpkin approaches a tall apartment building, windows lined in neat rows that delineate small, cheap rooms. He turns his head and meows loudly, rubbing his body against the dull brick.

Nott approaches cautiously, searching the area for prying eyes before she gets close. His ears twitch, and in a sudden movement he flops over onto his side, stomach exposed and paws batting lightly at the air.

Nott, in her wariness, never ended up petting Frumpkin, choosing instead to watch as everyone else took their turns cooing over him. He seemed...fine, and now he’s looking at her with big, saucer-like eyes, and she’s pretty sure animals exposing their bellies means they _want_ to pet. 

She crouches down and reaches out a tentative hand towards the surprisingly soft fur on Frumpkin’s stomach, palm flat. His eyes gleam and in one fluid movement he wraps his front paws around her wrist, kicking his back legs against her arms.

“Ah! Fuck!” She yells, jumping back and leaving Frumpkin laying deviously in the grass. She glares at him, cradling her hand even though it didn’t really hurt. Just as she’s about the curse out the cat, she sees a tall figure duck around the side of the building and freezes in panic.

“Nott?” Calls a familiar voice, and she can see now that it’s Caleb, his ragged coat thrown over a white t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. 

Nott waves sheepishly, eyes darting back and forth between Caleb and Frumpkin. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, just as Frumpkin stands up and trots happily over to him, weaving in and out between his legs. 

“I saw your cat on the street, and I...followed him here?” She realizes now how shady that sounds, and a stab of panic runs through her.

Caleb smiles faintly, cocking his head to the side. “What were you doing out?” He picks Frumpkin up and holds him to his chest, softly scratching behind his ears.

“Oh, well, I, you know…” Nott doesn’t want to say _homeless_ even though it’s the most succinct description. “I don’t really have a...place to stay.” 

Caleb takes in, then, the ratty clothes, the backpack and satchel thrown over her shoulder, the trouble in school, not having a phone—all the pieces fit neatly together, and he sighs. 

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” He asks hesitantly.

“Shelter opens pretty soon,” she says, eyes trained on the ground. She feels a little guilty—like she’s pulling some kind of pity card, like she should’ve just lied her way out of it.

“I know that place,” Caleb says, in the tone of someone deadset on never stepping foot in there again, “But I could let you stay with me, if you’d like.”

Nott weighs the offer heavily. It’s tempting, she admits, somewhere that’s not cramped, not limited by strict regulation, and she likes Caleb. He’s nice to her. But there is a part of Nott that is wary, unwilling to take this step into the unknown. She stares up at Caleb, big yellow eyes meeting his reserved blue gaze.

“Alright,” she says, faltering slightly, “If that’s okay.”

“Ya,” Caleb says, and he starts walking towards the door with his cat still bundled happily in his arms, twisting his head to make sure she’s following.

The big glass door leads to a cozy, if drab, building. There’s not much to say about it other than that it’s warm and lit and has an elevator leading to hallways full of small, identical rooms.

“Third floor,” he mutters absently, leading Nott to the elevator. She’s been in one before, but it’s been a _long_ time, and the nerves she’s already feeling combined with the lift in her stomach as they start rising make her start rethinking her decisions. She fidgets with the hem of her coat, eyes focused on the ground, just trying to breath.

They step out into a long hallway filled with identical doors, each with a different number on it. Five doors down Caleb turns to the left and opens one of them, Frumpkin unceremoniously wiggling out of his arms as soon as he does so. “Make yourself at home.”

Nott steps tentatively into the apartment. It’s nothing much—a small kitchen, a living space, and two doors that presumably lead to a bathroom and bedroom respectively. There’s a couch and a small tv, and it looks like just about the coziest place Nott has ever had the privilege of sleeping.

They hover awkwardly around for a few seconds before Nott walks over to the couch and sets her things down. She sits, and it’s passably soft, a little worn but nothing to complain about. Looking around, the place is a bit of a mess—books and papers laid out on every available surface, dishes in the sink, a couple articles of clothing left hanging over the sides of chairs. Caleb sheepishly moves some of the clutter off the coffee table, sporting a nervous grin.

“Thanks, but, you live like this?”

“I’m...busy,” Caleb says weakly, trying to arrange all the loose papers into a neat stack.

She clucks disapprovingly, doing another slow scan of the place. “You’re a mess, Caleb.”

“You–I, you just…” he trails off, sighing and hunching his shoulders. “Yeah.”

“Want me to help you clean the place up?” She offers, because it’s the least she can do if she’s going to have to sit with all this clutter.

“Sure?” Caleb says tentatively, and then, “Are you hungry?”

“Watcha got?” Of _course_ Nott is hungry, but that’s nothing new, a feeling she’d learned to ignore until it's addressed.

Caleb glances through the fridge, but quickly abandons it, turning instead to the cupboard. “Canned soup, cereal, I think there’s some eggs in there, I’ve got bread for sandwiches, um...there’s really not that much. College, you know.”

She cocks her head slightly because _no, she doesn’t_ , but lets it go. She hops off the couch and walks the near-negligible distance into the kitchen, peering up past Caleb’s shoulder and into the cupboard full of boxes.

“Hey, are those granola bars?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’ll get one of those.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a week late and on a thursday. What's up? I'm starting college in a week, that's what's up, and I've been super busy + stressed as hell so the writing has been REAL rough. So, for the foreseeable future I'm gonna be getting chapters up when I can. I'll try to loosely followed the every two weeks schedule, but it really depends on how my schedule ends up. This chapter is also very short, because it was originally part of a much longer chapter that I just didn't have time to finish so I cut it down to this nice little nott-and-caleb interlude. So think of it like a mini-chapter to hold you over until I can really get back into the swing of things. <3


	12. Chapter 12

Beau is in her room.

She doesn’t like how quiet things are. Her dad greeted her nonchalantly when she walked in the door, and hasn’t said a word since. She’s still buzzing with anxiety about the doom she feels is impending, the punishment that’ll come out of left field and somehow ruin this fragile system she’s built for herself. 

She’s got a long weekend ahead of her. She knows she’s gonna be tense the whole time, left on guard with nothing to do about it. Her head is still fuzzy, but it feels like it’s fading, like she’ll be over it in a day or two. It’s only six o’clock but her eyes droop, worn out from a combination of stress and feeling like garbage. It’s a good time for a nap, she reasons, and it doesn’t take long to drift off to sleep.

Beau doesn’t dream often, and when she does, it’s rarely substantial—more like a vague haze of color and feeling, quickly forgotten. She wakes up in the middle of the night from one of them, dark blue still coloring her vision, and a sense of dread settled deep in her chest. Any fleeting images drain quickly from her mind, and all that’s left is hollow fear cutting deep into her half-awake haze.

A crack of thunder knocks her further into consciousness, and Beau now realizes the white noise in her ears is the fall of rain against the roof. She fumbles for her phone, left charging on the bedside table, and checks the time—just past 4am.

The bright light stings her eyes in the oppressive darkness, and she scrambles to quickly turn the brightness down through squinted eyes. There’s a couple of missed texts from the groupchat, but a quick glance reveals that it’s nothing important. Beau puts the phone down and snuggles back into her blankets, but after a few seconds she can tell she’s not getting back to sleep.

It makes sense—she did pass out way earlier than normal. It’s no less annoying, though, to be up at this ungodly hour. She reluctantly picks up her phone again and adjusts to the light from the dimmed screen.

There’s not much to do, really. The rain drones in the background, and Beau can’t help but think of Yasha. She wonders if she’s awake (even though she has no right to be, it’s _4 in the morning_ ), but even as that thought crosses her mind, she finds herself already opening up her text thread.

_Beau: Hey  
It’s raining _

She not exactly sure what that’s meant to accomplish, but it’s sent, and Yasha will probably wake up to a weird random text–

_Yasha: Yeah it is._

Oh. Shit. She’s actually awake. Beau wasn’t ready for this.

_Beau: Why are you up so early?_

_Yasha: I’m watching the rain._

Beau blinks, a little surprised

_Beau: You do this every time it rains?_

_Yasha: No. Most of the time. It usually wakes me up._

_Beau: That’s gotta suck_

_Yasha: I kinda like it._

Beau smiles in the darkness, because that’s...that’s really cute. A flash of lightning illuminates the room, followed in a few seconds by a low rumble that feels strangely comforting. Beau could get used to the rain

_Beau: Yeah it’s nice_

She waits a few minutes without a reply before continuing,

_Beau: We should hang out if it lets up though  
Not that I want the rain to stop  
It just kinda sucks to walk through_

_Yasha: That sounds nice.  
If it’s still raining I could just drive over there?_

Beau has never really considered having someone over, and thinking back, there’s...not really a rule against it. Not explicitly, at least, because it’s never been an issue before; Beau hasn’t had friends to invite over since elementary school. 

However, she doesn’t like the idea of Yasha at her house, just waiting for her dad to pull _something_. Sneaking out she’s good at, but she’s never tried to sneak someone _in_ , and she doesn’t think it’d go well.

This is a train of thought for some time that isn’t four in the morning, so Beau tables it for now.

_Beau: Yeah we’ll see what’s up later  
I’m not really supposed to leave the house but I’ll see what I can do _

She’s got a couple of hours to kill, and spends it in her usual fashion—morning workout, dicking around on her phone, grabbing food from the kitchen. Eventually, the sky begins to lighten as the sun crests over the horizon and she pauses for a moment to watch it. The rain has mostly stopped, just enough for the pinks and oranges to shine out amongst the wisps of dark clouds. Beau isn’t really one for sublime beauty, but it’s still _something_ , to watch the haze of dark greys chased away by the dawn, a monotone city bathed in light.

Her phone buzzes in her hand, and she tears her eyes away for a moment to read,

_Yasha: You still up? Pretty sunrise._

Beau grins, and her chest floods with warmth as she imagines Yasha across the city watching the same sights from her living room, with that peaceful contemplative look on her face, Molly waking in the background to make them breakfast–

She feels a sharp, unmistakable stab of longing deep in her chest. She misses it more than she realized, and it’s less the place that calls for her and more the _feeling_ , the quiet relaxed affection that’s inescapable around those two. Even though it was awkward and new there was still a baseline sense of comfort there, one that’s absent in her own home.

_Beau: Yeah, it’s really nice_

She _really_ wants to see Yasha now, more than just a half-wishful promise, and Beau takes a moment to consider how she can actually go about it.

Sneaking out is a possibility. With locks on the first floor windows and alarms on the doors, it really only leaves the second story, and that’s..complicated. Possible, but complicated. Asking to go see friends is out of the question. Asking to leave for pretty much anything will net a hard no, except _maybe_ something for school.

 _Caleb_. Beau had forgotten about her supposed math tutoring, and among everything else it’s a perfect out. It’s one lie her dad totally believes—Caleb had backed her up completely, and she’d even started paying attention in class and pulling her grade up a few points to carry the ruse.

_Beau: Hey Caleb can you cover for me  
I’m gonna hang out with Yasha later today but I’m kind of not allowed to leave my house  
I’m telling my dad we’re studying for that test wednesday _

She’s pretty sure he’s still asleep, given that it’s not even seven yet, but he’ll get it when he gets it. There’s plenty of time, hours left before it becomes an acceptable time to do anything. The waiting game is agonizing but necessary; within minutes Beau finds herself deep in a nap, feeling the effects of waking up in the middle of the night.

 

She blinks awake at a much more respectable 10am, and by then Caleb’s answered.

_Caleb: Ja, don’t worry about it._

She smirks, interested to note that slight Zemnian appears in his texts as well as his speech.

_Beau: Thanks man_

Beau feels _good_ , the fuzzy cold like a distant memory, and the extra few hours of sleep leaving her energized rather than groggy. There’s a spark of excitement coursing through her veins, half from breaking the rules and half from the prospect of getting to see her friends. She can’t keep the light grin off her face, the bounce out of her step.

She goes downstairs, and it’s the wrong kind of quiet. Not a hollow emptiness, but a tense silence. A few sneaking steps and an ear to the wall confirm her suspicions; her dad is in the study, his locations betrayed by the sound of a pen scratching against paper.

He must be working. Bothering him will get her nowhere, so she hangs like a vulture in the living room, waiting for the sound of the door opening to catch him. Half an hour passes before she hears footsteps and the door creak; she positions herself to walk casually into his path at just the opportune moment.

It works; he looks up at her just as she slips through the door. She glances up from her phone and catches his eye.

“Hey dad,” she starts with forced casualness, “Caleb wants to meet up today and go over some stuff for the test this week. Cool?”

He narrows his eyes, filled with exasperated disbelief. “Where are you really going?”

“To the library. To study. With Caleb.”

“How are you getting there?” He asks.

“Figured I’d ride over, it’s not that far.” It is _kind_ of far, but not completely unreasonable.

“Why can’t he pick you up?” 

Beau sighs and rolls her eyes. “You want me to call Caleb right now so you can be _sure_?” She puts just enough snark to make it realistic, but not enough to piss him off further.

He glares silently, but the look says it all; Beau dials the number of puts in on speaker, waiting a few tense moments as it rings.

“Yes, Beauregard?” Comes Caleb’s voice, slightly staticy through the phone’s speakers.

“You still wanna meet up and study at the library?”

“Ja? Why?”

“My dad’s worried about me walking and he wants you to pick me up, is that cool?”

“No problem, see you in a few hours.”

Beau hangs up smugly, enjoying the disappointed look on her dad’s face _far_ too much. She reminds herself to tell Caleb that she seriously owes him one.

“I’m expecting you to do well on that test, then,” her dad says grimly, and Beau heaves another sigh as he disappears into the next room. Putting in the effort is a drag, but it’s not impossible, and it’s worth it for the mileage this lie has gotten. She retreats to her room and shoots Caleb a text.

_Beau: Sorry man_

_Caleb: It’s okay, I’m not busy today  
About 1, 1:30 ja?  
You can tell me where to drop you off _

Beau grins, and realizes suddenly that she should _probably_ clue Yasha in on her plans.

_Beau: Still good to hang out?  
I was planning at dropping by somewhere around one _

_Yasha: Yeah._

The weirdly formal punctuation still makes Beau’s heart skip a beat every time, even though she should be used to it by now. Given everything else about Yasha, it makes sense, and it’s even a little endearing, if only it didn’t have that gut reaction of intense worry.

 _Endearing_ catches in Beau’s brain. It’s a good word for Yasha, she thinks, a perfect word—everything she does is _endearing_ where it should be weird, or off-putting. Beau smiles faintly, sinking her head back into the soft pillows. There’s a bit of a shift and a flutter in her chest, and then it hits her.

Beau has spent an embarrassing amount of time being smitten with girls. She knows how it feels, and in this moment, she _knows_. It catches her in the split second, in the fuzzy warmth that thoughts of Yasha cause, and, once she realizes it her stomach drops.

 _Christ_ , she thinks, _I have a crush on Yasha_.

This isn’t what she needs, this wrench in her fragile social life. Alienating Yasha would mean losing Molly, and Jester’s much more likely to follow them than her. Fjord and Nott are sure to go, too, and then she’d be stuck alone. Again.

That’s not an option. Beau takes a deep breath and contemplates how to swallow her feelings. She can just ignore it, and it’ll eventually go away. It’s only the vague beginnings of a crush—barely enough to be considered butterflies, hell. She’s just falling for the first pretty girl to pay her any attention. It doesn’t mean anything.

 _It doesn’t mean anything_ , Beau repeats to herself as she sinks farther into the bed and remembers she’ll be at Yasha’s apartment in just a few hours. Being with friends is _not_ supposed to be another source of stress, but here she is ruining the one good thing she has for herself. She needs a drink.

That’s a thought that’s at least distracting. Acquiring alcohol, the oldest of challenges. Trying to sneak something right now is basically suicide, so Beau resorts to lifting her mattress and pulling out the half-full bottle of whiskey she’d stashed under it ages ago.

It’s not the most pleasant drink, but the sting of it as it burns down her throat is grounding. It only takes a swig or two to feel more relaxed, and she returns the bottle to its hiding place, unwilling to drain any more than necessary. The tension in her shoulders loosens a little bit, and Beau takes a deep breath. It’ll be _fine_. If anything, it’s already starting to fade after a moment of thought. 

But still, there’s that nagging thought at the back of her head, that tiny thread of possibility that makes her heart flutter. She can’t stop herself from imagining a reality where _maybe_ things work out, and maybe Yasha likes her back, and maybe her stupid hopeful dreams can be more than just that. 

It’s a nice thought, and Beau has two hours to kill it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy heck batman, it's an update! College is wack but I'm surviving, however I've been VERY busy. Still can't say there'll be any sort of regularity but I definitely haven't forgotten about sk8r beau <3


	13. Chapter 13

The next two hours are possibly the slowest of Beau’s life. 

She tries, vehemently, to _not_ think about her new realization, but that only shoves it to the front of her mind. No distraction seems to able to hold her attention; music, tv—it’s all noise. The minutes tick away slowly, and yet the time passes like an inevitable march. It’s one before she knows it, and she can’t stop nervously checking her phone.

_Caleb: Beau, where do you live?_

She laughs, a small break in her internal tension. She hadn’t thought about the fact that Caleb had no idea where to go. She shoots him the address.

_Caleb: Not far, I’ll be there in 10 minutes._

Ten minutes. It doesn’t seem long in theory, but in practice, it lasts for a longer eternity than the previous two hours. Beau stares absently at the clock, watching the numbers slowly tick over, her thoughts racing in the back of her mind. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, _why_ she’s doing it, what she hopes to accomplish. If anything, this is just gonna get her deeper in trouble—with her dad, of course, but also with Yasha. It has to be obvious, the feelings bubbling in her chest. She blushes on instinct just _thinking_ about it, how’s she gonna be when Yasha’s actually there?

And Molly will be a force of his own—already convinced Beau has some sort of thing for Yasha (which, _true_ , but still) and ready to rib her for it. He’ll be delighted, and if Yasha doesn’t pick it up on her own he’ll definitely say something. 

Beau puts her head in her hands and groans loudly. Finally, her phone buzzes.

_Caleb: Here._

Beau sucks in a breath and she’s down the stairs before she knows it, quickly combing her hands through the loose strands of hair escaping her bun, trying to make them look deliberate. As soon her heels hits the wooden floor of the foyer, the sound of footsteps catches her attention, and her dad appears like a specter from the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“Caleb’s here,” Beau snaps, not breaking her stride towards the door.

He narrows his eyes. “And you’re not lying to me?”

“Look outside and see for yourself!” She reached it and turns the knob, flinging the door open. On the road sits a small, old car, windows rolled up.

“Let me walk you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to give my daughter away to strange men.”

Beau glares, and she weighs her options. “You know you don’t have to worry about me and men.”

“You say that now,” he sighs, rolling his eyes and strolling through the open door. She can see the smug grin on his lips, like he knows _exactly_ how her life will play out. She’s endured this lecture before, and she bites her tongue.

She takes a step outside and he follows closely, haughty glare boring into the back of her skull. She quickens her pace to leave him behind; he matches her, step by step, staying right at her side, close enough to reach out and grab if he _really_ wanted to. 

It puts her on edge, of course. The short walk out to Caleb’s car feels like it takes an eternity.

She can see Caleb through the window as she approaches, looking tired and a little confused. She motions for him to roll it down and he says a few words—something she can’t make out just by looking—and complies.

“You’re Caleb?” Her dad’s voice rumbles from her side, and he places a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes sir,” Caleb says, squaring his shoulders with his gloved hands still on the wheel. He’s wearing his usual shabby coat, and Beau can see the hint of anxiety behind the blank expression on his face.

“Nice to meet you. How has Beauregard been?” He tightens his grip.

“She’s a very bright girl,” Caleb say. His eyes are blank, staring at Beau’s father with a polite smile quarantined to the bottom half of his face.

Beau’s dad laughs, face twisting into a sneer. “Don’t let her trick you,” he says coldly, shoving Beau forward with a push just light enough to be mistaken as playful, “She’s nothing but trouble.”

Beau catches herself quickly and whips her head to see her father already half turned away, the shadow of his smirk fading from his features. She rolls her shoulders, a shiver running down her spine, and grits her teeth. He disappears towards the house.

Beau sighs and opens the car door, nearly jumping out of her skin as she sees a pair of yellow eyes staring up at her.

“Get in the back!” Nott says, crouched in the front seat, just low enough that she isn’t visible through the window. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Beau breathes, putting a hand on her chest, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“She wanted to come?” Caleb says sheepishly.

“I wanted to say hi!” Nott protests, and she extends one of her clawed hands. “Hi.”

“Nice to see you,” Beau says with a smile, shaking her hand. “But did you have to scare me like that?”

“Caleb said your dad didn’t know he’d be bringing a plus one and I should probably duck,” Nott mutters, shrugging. 

Beau sighs, but she can’t help smiling. She slips into the backseat and slumps against it, letting the tension run out of her shoulders. “Thanks again, man,” she says.

“No problem,” Caleb says, turning back to grin at her as he starts the car, “I can tell you really wanted to see her.”

Beau sits up, eyes widening, and sputters, “What do you mean?”

She can see the grin crawling across his face even as he turns his eyes to the road. “I was young once, too.”

“Shut up, man, you’re only a few years older than me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Nott interrupts.

“Hey, what the hell are _you_ doing hanging out with Caleb?” Beau is happy to divert the attention off herself.

“Oh, uh, long story–”

“He let me crash at his place,” Nott says nonchalantly. 

“Did you ditch your parents?”

Nott turns around the look at her, and Beau sees her ears drooping. “More like they ditched me.”

“Oh,” Beau mutters, looking intently at the floorboards, “That sucks.”

“Good riddance!” Nott pipes up, suddenly much more chipper, “Fucking goblins. They did me a favor in the end.”

Caleb glances aside, face creasing into worry, and Beau matches his expression. “So you’ve just been...slumming it? For how long?” She asks tentatively.

“A year? I don’t know,” Nott shrugs

“Sorry, man.”

"But now I'm staying with Caleb, it's not too bad," Nott says, seeming pleased with herself, and the conversation trails as the car rolls through the neighborhood. Beau gives Caleb directions, and the distance by car doesn’t take long to cover. Caleb rolls to a stop in front of the apartment building that Beau points out, and she opens the door.

“Thanks again, Caleb,” she calls as she steps out, “See ya, Nott.”

Nott waves bye through the window and Caleb gives her a nod and a small smile; Beau closes the door and he drives away. She turns toward the familiar door and feels a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

She takes a deep breath, tensing her hands into fists and releasing them, unwilling to take the first step forward. And yet, she feels herself drawn toward it, enticed by the pleasant memories of a place that feels more comfortable than _home_ ever could. 

Beau feels her face curl into a smirk, and she takes the first step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while friends...all I can say is,,,college. 
> 
> Trying to update with some regularity? Can't PROMISE a schedule or anything. Probably short chapters for the most part, but i'm Trying.


	14. Chapter 14

Beau doesn’t know why she expects Molly to answer the door, but the thought has firmly implanted itself in her brain. So much so that when she knocks and the face she sees is pale instead of purple, it shocks her into a few moments of silence.

The seconds tick by, and her and Yasha stare.

“Hi?” Yasha says finally, glancing down at her feet.

“Hey,” Beau says back just a little too quickly, nervously brushing a strand of stray hair out of her face. She catches that Yasha’s shirt just shows off her midriff, unseasonable for the cold weather, and for a second she feels self conscious about her harem pants and baggy t-shirt.

“You can come in?” Yasha’s already stepped back into the room, Beau left staring dumbly in the doorway.

“Um, yeah, thanks,” Beau mumbles, ducking into the apartment. Immediately, she sees Molly draped across the couch, legs dangling gracefully off the side. He raises his head and smirks.

“Lucky Yasha got the door, I would’ve kicked you out.”

Beau raises her middle finger, flashing him a smug sneer, and she feels some of the tension flaking away.

“What’d you wanna do?” Yasha asks, leaning back against the wall.

“Oh,” Beau says, suddenly aware of her acute lack of plans, “I don’t know, just like, hang out?”

Yasha cocks her head, confused, and Beau bites her lip.

“You two are useless,” Molly sighs, lolling his head back over the arm of the couch, “You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you.”

“Fuck _off_ , Molly,” Beau mumbles, rolling her eyes pointedly. He grins with pride and vaults himself off the couch, his iconic coat flowing majestically behind him. 

“You’d be _so_ bored without me!”

“And when are you going to make yourself interesting?” Beau says dryly.

“Oh, you wouldn’t _believe_ —” Molly gets halfway through his jeer before Yasha cuts him off.

“Actually, I’ve got plans,” she says softly, and Molly looks confused for a moment before he perks up, his tail swishing excitedly behind him

“Fine then! You two have your fun, when you’re dying of boredom come find me, I’ll be here,” he says, letting himself fall backwards with a flourish back onto the couch. He cracks one eyes open and grins at Yasha, flicking his wrist in their vague direction.

Yasha flushes with embarrassment and quietly motions for Beau to follower her, turning into the short hallway with the bedrooms. She opens her door and Beau followers her inside.

Yasha’s room doesn’t look like Beau expected. She didn’t know _what_ she expected, really, but it wasn’t this—it’s neat, but homey. Her bed is made in the center of the room, and there’s a desk housing a few books and knick knacks. There’s a window that lets the sun stream in, and in the sill sits a pot with a spiky green plant.

“You grow plants?” Beau blurts immediately, and she regrets the lack of filter between her brain and her mouth.

“Plant,” Yasha says, glancing over at it, “I just have the one, but I like him.”

Beau takes a step closer to get a look at the succulent, dark green leaves that grow straight up and to a point with white stripes across them. “Cool,” she says, “I think I’d kill anything I tried to take care of.”

Yasha shrugs, drifting over to the pot and stroking one of the broader leaves absentmindedly. “It’s not too hard once you get used to it.” She pauses for a moment, in thought, “I’d like to grow flowers someday.”

“That sounds nice,” Beau says. She’s never cared much for flowers, but she’s starting to see the appeal. “Um, what’d you have planned?”

“Oh!” Yasha ducks her head in embarrassment, bringing up a hand to rub the back of her neck, “I just...Even I get tired of Mollymauk sometimes.”

A wild grin crawls across Beau’s face, and she can practically feel herself bouncing on her heels. “You just wanted to _ditch Molly_?” she asks incredulously.

“I didn’t wanna ditch him!” Yasha defends, “Just, y’know, when it’s the three of us it’s all bickering, and I don’t really get to…” she trails off, smiling awkwardly as she avoids eye contact.

“Yeah, I get you,” Beau says softly, “Appreciate the quiet?”

“Yeah,” Yasha chuckles, taking a seat on the edge of her bed.

“Then I don’t know what you’re doing with me here.” Beau steps over to Yasha and sits on the floor, her head resting on the side of he bed next to Yasha’s thigh. She flicks her eyes upward to meet Yasha’s, slight smirk on her features.

Yasha knits her eyebrows, letting out a small, “Hm?”

“I’m loud as hell,” Beau laughs, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “Annoying too. I mean, not Molly levels, of course, but–”

“I don’t think you’re annoying,” Yasha says, and she looks dead serious. Beau feels her heart drop.

“Cool!” she says, and immediately sinks her front teeth into her tongue. “Um, y’know, like, not everyone can _handle_ Beauregard, you’ve got great taste.”

Yasha laughs, and it’s criminal the way the edges of her eyes crinkle, the slight curve of her smile, the way her laughter is soft and quiet, just like her.

Beau feels heat rising to her cheeks. She’s in too deep. A familiar rush of adrenaline hits her, that urge to _run_ , and it’s strange to feel it spurred by something other than fear.

She stares like a deer in the headlights. Yasha’s face shifts from her gentle smile into confusion as she glances down and sees Beau, wide-eyed.

Beau comes back to herself and smiles like a dumbass, a big cheesy grin, too much teeth, too many angles; she has a face made for scowling and she knows it doesn’t look natural, but there’s nothing else she can think to do.

“You know you don’t have to sit on the floor,” Yasha says, and she pats the space next to her on the bed. 

“Oh, yeah?” Beau says, and it comes out a little strained. She spends just a little too long deciding how far away from Yasha to sit, but she finally makes a decision, with a good foot separating them. It doesn’t matter much, because Yasha stands up right after she sits down.

“Mind if I put some music on?”

“Go ahead! What kinda stuff do you like?”

“Oh, just anything, really,” Yasha says, fiddling with her phone as she drifts over to her desk, where Beau sees her pick up a small speaker. “I got this from Molly,” she muses, “He loves to give gifts.” 

The song starts just as her sentence trails off, and Beau instantly recognizes it. 

_I don’t wanna talk about it, I don’t wanna think about it_

“I love this song,” she blurts, and the embarrassment is worth the big grin that crawls across Yasha’s face.

“I’ve been listening to a lot of her stuff recently,” Yasha says, her fingers tapping along to the rhythm on the desk. 

“Oh, cool,” Beau mutters, trying not to get distracted by the lyrics. “Yeah, I really like Hayley Kiyoko, even though it’s different than like, a lotta the other stuff I listen to.”

“Oh?” Yasha asks, taking the spot beside her again.

In the background, the chorus starts up, _But at least I got you in my head._

“Oh, um, I like stuff that’s kinda...loud, angry. Gets me pumped.”

“I like soft music,” Yasha says with a slight smile, “I can appreciate the loud stuff, though.”

“Yeah, me too, like, I listen to a lot of different stuff.”

“Do you listen to music a lot?” Yasha leans backward, palms flat on the bed behind her, and her eyes are almost level with Beau’s now.

“Uh, kinda? I don’t really have a lotta other stuff to do.” Beau doesn’t quite like to admit the dull monotony of her day to day life, the constant feeling that there _should_ be more. 

“I like it when I’m driving,” Yasha says, a bit wistfully, “The radio in my truck sucks, but I kinda like that? Makes it sound unique.”

“Oh yeah, I get that,” Beau says, “Are you like, busy a lot?”

“Not really.” She takes a moment to think, “A little more when I’ve got wrestling. Sometimes I hang out with Molly while he’s working.”

“Oh yeah, wrestling, uh, how do you like that?”

“It’s fun,” Yasha murmurs, and she stares up at the ceiling, “Kinda peaceful, in a weird way. You don’t gotta think about stuff. And I’m really good at it.” She hold up her arm and flexes, showing biceps thick with muscle.

Beau blushes and turns her eyes to the ground.

“I’ve got a match next week, you should come.”

“Oh, uh, really?” Beau asks, a little flustered, looking back up to Yasha smiling softly at her.

“Yeah, I think you’d like it.”

Beau can’t deny that she loves a good fight. She prefers something a little more...freeform, but wrestling could be fun. Watching Yasha wrestle could be fun.

“I’ll try to make it then,” Beau says, and lets herself fall backwards, landing with a soft thump against the mattress. “It’s so nice here,” she sighs.

Yasha shrugs. “Probably doesn’t compare to your place.”

“Nah,” Beau says, waving a hand dismissively, “My house _sucks_. It’s always so cold in there.”

“Yeah, Molly likes to keep it warm.”

That’s not what she meant, but she holds off saying it. “He would. Do you mind it?”

“Not really. It’s…” She searches for a moment, tongue just poking out the side of her mouth as she’s in thought, “The best place I’ve ever lived. My favorite.”

“Oh?” Beau says softly, “Where are you from?”

“Xhorhas,” Yasha says, and faint accent Beau couldn’t quite place finally registers, “It wasn’t bad, though, just...I like it better here. It’s greener,”

“Damn,” Beau says with a laugh, “If it’s greener here I can’t _imagine_.”

“What do you mean?” Yasha asks, and she looks genuinely confused.

“It’s just, so grey around here?”

“Hm.” Yasha tilts her head, “I guess if you’re not looking.”

There’s a moment of silence, and stretches long as the music plays in the background. It’s comfortable, not awkward, and Beau closes her eyes, just enjoying Yasha’s presence.

Yasha breaks it, after a few minutes. “Wanna go outside?”

“Hm?”

“I know a spot with some good trees,” she starts, and looks a little sheepish, “Y’know, green.”

“Oh, yeah!” Beau sits up and smiles, painfully aware of how goofy it must look, “I’m down.” 

Yasha beams at her and stands up, head turning towards her closet. She digs out a jacket and shrugs it on while Beau stands up, then motions for her to follow into the hallway.

Molly’s still laying on the couch, and he cracks open an eye as they walk by. “Where are you two going?”

“Out for a little,” Yasha says.”

“Out _where_?” He asks, shooting up and resting his chin on the back of the couch. He grins and scrunches his nose, and his tail flicks excitedly behind him.

“To go look at trees,” Beau says bluntly, glaring at him.

He whistles and says, “Oh, not just _anyone_ gets to see the trees!”

“Molly,” Yasha says pitifully, and he smiles softly at her.

“Have fun you two,” he says, waving his hand dismissively as he sinks back onto the couch. “Stay safe, don’t talk to strangers, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do–”

He’s cut off by the sound of the door slamming shut.

“So, where are we going exactly?” Beau asks.

“Oh, it’s not far. Just a little walk,” Yasha says, smiling serenely as she steps in the sun. She leads Beau around behind the building, and it quickly becomes clear. There’s a stretch of green not far from the apartments, clearly meant to be some kind of yard. It doesn’t look like it’s gotten much love, but on the far end there are three trees growing, one large and sprawling and two smaller.

“Isn’t it a nice little place? I like to read out here,” Yasha says as they approach, “Or sit under the trees while it rains.”

“You really like the rain, don’t you?” Beau asks with a slight chuckle, remember a rain-drenched Yasha from only a little while ago.

“I just…” she frowns, furrowing her eyebrows as she searches for the words, “It calls to me.”

“Oh,” Beau murmurs, “Cool?”

Yasha reaches the base of one of the smaller trees and sits down, back against the trunk. The shade is nice, though unnecessary with the cool temperature. Beau looks the tree up and down. She places her foot against the trunk and grabs one of the lower branches, kicking off and hoisting herself up. 

“What are you doing?” Yasha asks, cocking her head to the side.

“What good is a tree if not for climbing?” Beau asks, shoving her foot into the fork of the tree and using it to lift herself to the next branch. She clambers onto it and finds a nice spot where she can rest her back against the trunk, reclining in the delight of elevation.

“I’d never thought of that,” Yasha laughs, and Beau can see her eyes darting around the branches, an inexperienced mind trying to work out the best way up. 

“Grab that one,” Beau says, pointing to a branch well within Yasha’s reach. She’s much taller, but also heavier, and it poses an interesting challenge. “Then kick off the trunk and pull yourself up.”

Yasha tries, but she loses her balance and stumbles backwards. She glances down, embarrassed, and goes for it again, adjusting. It takes some strain, but she manages to pull herself onto the lower branch, and beams with pride.

“You’re a natural,” Beau says, and she can’t help but break into laughter. “It’s been _forever_ since I’ve climbed a tree, I forgot how much I love it.”

“Really?” Yasha asks, confusion and curiosity mingling in the smile on her lips.

“I was a menace when I was a kid,” Beau says with pride, “I don’t really know why I like it.” She tilts her head back and squints, really thinking. “Just really good at it.”

“I could get used it,” Yasha says, shifting her feet for better balance, “I didn’t have trees that I could climb when I was little.”

“Shit, man, that sucks.”

“Yeah, there’s not much green in Xhorhas,” she sighs, but it sounds wistful.

“Do you miss it?” Beau asks softly.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

There’s a million questions on her lips, but she bites her tongue. She doesn’t want to pry too far, doesn’t wanna invite the same.

“Have you always lived here?”

Beau chuckles. “Born and raised.”

“Do you like it?”

“I’m itching to get out,” Beau sighs, and she means it, “This town has nothing for me. It’s just a bunch of bullshit. I wanna go somewhere exciting.”

Yasha hums, lost in thought. “I don’t know if I like exciting,” she says finally, “I’d wanna be somewhere quiet.”

“I guess quiet is nice, sometimes,” Beau murmurs, “Like, somewhere you can go and _do things_ , but when you get back home you’ve just got it to yourself?”

“Yeah,” Yasha says, grinning, “Somewhere like that. With a garden.”

“Gotta have the garden,” Beau laughs, “And nice big windows. Trees in the yard, _bird feeders_.” 

“Bird feeders?” Yasha asks.

“Yeah, birds are cool!”

“I guess they are,” she chuckles, “I’ve never really been an animal person. Never had any pets or anything.”

“I haven’t either,” Beau says, but quickly adds, “Well, I kinda had a cat once. It wasn’t _my_ cat, it was just a stray, but I’d pet it and give it scraps.” 

Yasha smiles. “That’s really sweet. Did you name it?”

“Not really,” Beau says, “When I saw him I just said…’hey man, what’s up’ and he’d rub against my legs and purr. Eventually my dad saw him around and scared him off, never saw him again.”

“What a dick,” Yasha says.

“Yeah, he’s a real motherfucker.” Beau pulls her phone from her pocket and glances at the time, doing some quick math, “I don’t know how much longer I can get away with being out of the house. He’s already suspicious.”

“What the fuck is his problem?”

“I don’t know,” Beau sighs, “Just like to control what I do? Thinks I’m always fucking up.”

Yasha’s quiet for a moment, eyes glancing at the ground her feet are dangling towards. “If he gets too much, you can stay with us again, y’know?”

Beau smiles, and she feels a little lump in the back of her throat. “Thanks, man.” She slides her legs off the side of the branch she’s perched on and sticks her foot back in the tree’s fork, finding a few handholds on her way down before jumping the last couple of feet. Yasha follows suit, slightly less gracefully, but she lands on her feet. 

Beau leans against the trunk awkwardly, arms crossed. “Thanks for, uh, showing me the trees,” she says, and she can feel the heat rising to her cheeks. 

“No problem,” Yasha says, “It was fun.”

“We should, uh, hang out more, like this, like–”

“Out here?” Yasha asks.

“Sure. Or just anywhere you want!”

“Yeah, it’s gonna get too cold to be out here soon,” Yasha says thoughtfully, and she starts drifting in the direction of her apartment. Beau sighs heavily, but gives up on trying to convey what she means.

“I’ll say hi to Molly but then I probably need to bounce,” she says, “Don’t wanna upset the old bastard, he probably already thinks I’m going off to get fucked by Caleb.”

Yasha’s eyes widen “What?”

“Told him Caleb was helping me on a math test but my dad’s… _like_ that.”

“Oh,” Yasha murmurs, “I didn’t think, uh, that you liked guys?”

“I don’t!” Beau sighs, exasperated, “Someone about that doesn’t register for him.”

“Oh, sorry,” Yasha says, glancing away.

“It’s fine. He’s such an asshole in every other way, it’s not surprising or anything.”

“Still sucks.” They’re getting closer to the apartments, and Beau’s a little sad.

“Yeah, I guess,” Beau sighs. The wind has picked up, and it’s biting right through her jacket, stinging her cheeks and nose, “Wish it wasn’t so fucking cold out here.”

“Yeah,” Yasha sighs, “It’s starting to get pretty bad. But maybe it’ll snow soon?”

Beau chuckles, “Do you like the snow?”

“It’s beautiful,” Yasha says, a tinge of pink rising in her cheeks, “And I like the way it feels under my feet.”

“Yeah,” Beau murmurs, trying to think of the last time she actually _played_ in the snow. Her mind wanders back to the photo album in the basement, her tiny self enraptured by a ground blanketed in white, and she tastes something sour. “Never really liked it. Too messy.”

“Maybe this winter we can build snowmen,” Yasha says absently, and they’ve arrived at the back of the apartments, swinging around the side towards the front door. 

Beau laughs, at what she’s not sure. The absurdity of it? Herself, 18 years old, playing in the snow like a kid again, and how despite her disdain for the cold, it sounds like a great time? She glances up at Yasha, the lopsided smile spread across her face, and she feels a pang in her chest, a deep and familiar longing. She wants to take her hand right now, to stand on her tiptoes and rest her head as close to Yasha’s shoulder as she can reach, to press a quick kiss to her cheek. 

Beau is suddenly glad she’s about to leave.

She quickens her pace just a little bit, and she opens the front door just before Yasha gets there. The warm air from inside immediately hits her, and her gut twists, torn between the desire to stay or _run_. She steps inside, and Molly _still_ hasn’t moved.

“Welcome back, lovebirds!” He chirps as soon as they step into the living room, and Beau feels panic shoot through her before she realizes he’s joking. 

“Fuck off,” she shoots back, but it comes out just a little strangled, and she watches his head pop up with light speed. He cocks it to the side, grinning at her like a cat about to stuff a canary into its mouth.

There’s a long second, and Molly, so quick-witted, doesn’t say anything. He just stares. The cat takes mercy; the canary takes flight.

“Anyway, I’m about to go,” Beau says, “Nice not seeing you.” She shoots Molly a shit-eating grin, and he returns it gleefully.

“Same to you!” 

Beau turns, and Yasha’s hovering behind her, looking slightly awkward. “Thanks for hanging out,” Beau says, softer, and she tries to pretend like Molly isn’t there, “I had a really good time.”

“Yeah, me too,” Yasha says, shuffling her feet, “Come over again sometime?”

“Definitely,” Beau says, and she pushes past towards the door, hesitating for a moment as she turns the knob. “Bye,” she says quietly, and Yasha waves at her as she slips outside.

 

Walking home in the cold sucks.

The wind is biting, and despite the hood thrown over her head, she can feel the inside of her ears getting sore. Her hands are shoved in her pockets and she’s striding with purpose down the street, trying to make the walk as short as possible. There’s a cocktail of satisfaction and anger mixing in her chest, and the annoyance isn’t helping her make more sense of it.

She’s happy. She got to spend time with Yasha, it was nice, so she’s _happy_. But Beau is also furious with herself, angry at her feelings, and the frustration of it is bleeding into the warm fuzzy feeling she’s carrying. Beau would very much like to _not_ be in love with Yasha.

She cringes, physically, as that thought runs through her brain, as the wording dawns on her. _In love_. It’s not inaccurate, though, it’s what she feels, or at least thinks she feels—love. Mushy, uncomfortable, undeniable love. It’s young and fluttering and like a flame begging for fuel to become more, and Beau can’t think of a way to put it out. 

She sees her house coming up in the distance, and for all the walking, she’s no closer to where she wants to be. But at least it’s a place out of the cold; at least she can pull her blanket over her head and pretend like none of this is happening. 

She opens the door, and there’s no rush of warm air. The temperature is the same, stagnant cold air to meet the swirling winds buffeting her outside. She feels her heart drop, and she steps inside, footsteps crisp and hollow against the hardwood floor. 

She shuts the door loudly behind her, stealth completely abandoned. Her dad could come and grill her for all she cares; it wouldn’t be any different than every day. She heads towards the stairs and she can hear a shift in the study, a chair scraping against the floor, but there are no footsteps that follow. He’s chosen to leave her alone.

She finds her way to her room and collapses on the bed with a sigh, putting her head in her hands. She’s _fucked_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer one today! Mostly dialogue but whatcha gonna do.


	15. Chapter 15

The cafeteria is always bustling, always full of noise, packed with teenagers bonding over subpar food and a too-short break from class. Beau finds her way where she always sits these days—a round table already filled with friends. She sits beside Jester, right across from Molly and Yasha.

They all wave a greeting, and Yasha’s more sheepish than usual.

Beau doesn’t have to the unpack that, though, because she’s walked right into the middle of an ongoing conversation, one that piques her interest.

“So, anyway, what’s-his-face, that guy from Hupperdook? Yeah, that’s _this_ Friday,” Molly says, and Beau immediately knows what he’s talking about. Those parties are _legendary_ , and she’s known about them for the last two years but never gone. 

Jester’s eyes are wide, glimmering with innocence and curiosity. “What’re his parties like?”

“Wild,” Beau breathes, wide smile crawling across her face.

“I heard there was one where somebody body-slammed a table in half,” Molly adds proudly, his elbows on table and his smirking face leaning almost halfway across it.

“I heard the police showed up to one, and they ended up joining in,” Beau says, recalling the story she’d never believed but always _wished_ was true. 

“That sounds _fun_!” Jester squeaks, the spark of chaos plain on her face. For once, her veneer of naivety about the world of high school parties drops in the face of pure mischief. 

“I don’t know if it’s worth it,” Beau sighs, “You know. I love loud, but then there’s _stupid_ loud.”

“Awww, that’s no fun!” Jester pouts.

“I think Beau’s right on this one,” Fjord says, heaving a sigh, “You don’t know what the hell someone’s gonna pull at a party like that.”

“Really, if you just wanna get stupid trashed, we can do that on our own,” Molly says with a shrug and a grin, taking an exaggerated sip from his milk carton. It leaves a smear of white on his lip that he quickly clears with a flick of his tongue.

“You’re gross,” Beau sighs.

“Hot if you had taste.”

“I don’t,” she deadpans, and it earns a soft chuckle from Yasha. 

Jester flicks her tail, a look of mock annoyance on her features. “ _Anyway_ , I don’t _want_ to drink, I want to have _fun_.”

“Once again, perfectly doable on our own!” Molly says.

“Then let’s _do_ it!”

“Hell, I’ve got a free weekend,” Beau says.

“I’ve always got a free weekend!” Nott joins in, with a smile so genuine it hurts.

“Our place is a little small for this many people,” Yasha says.

“No! Come over to my place, it’s _really_ big, and you can see the pictures of my mom, and meet my auntie, and I can show you my room—”

“Now _that_ sounds like a good time!” Molly says, leaning forward in his seat and bringing his milk forward. Without missing a beat, Jester gives him a toast and downs the rest of hers in one gulp, a wide grin spread across her face. 

None of them, least of all Beau, can hide the buzz of excitement that settles over the table. Even Fjord is grinning like an idiot as Jester goes on about all the things they can do—the games they’ll play, movies to watch, snacks to eat.

Beau can’t help but feel light. It feels _good_. It feels like, despite everything, things are looking up.

 

Then Friday rolls around. 

It feels normal, even hopeful, as Beau wakes up. All the plans are set into the place, addresses sent and rides acquired for Saturday’s sleepover. She doesn’t want to admit how excited she is, how much her mood leaps at every thought of it, the spring in her step and the smile on her lips as the rolls out of bed. Even her dad notices it, commenting wryly as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. She can’t find the energy to be mad.

But still, his cruel smile puts a twinge of dread in her heart.

School is electric, half the senior class buzzing with whispers about the imminent party. The rumors are starting to fly already, that there’s something _big_ planned, that for his senior year he’s going all out. It sounds like horseshit to Beau, but it’s fun to listen to. It passes the time for the day that otherwise crawls by painfully slow. 

But it does crawl by. Three o’clock rolls around, finally, and Beau walks home with Molly and Yasha by her side. She lingers by their door, unwilling to say goodbye, but eventually she has to leave and ride her board the rest of the way home.

When she gets home, the house is mostly quiet. She can hear soft voices lilting from the kitchen, her mother and father having a calm conversation, something that doesn’t concern her. She finds her way up the stairs and there are no prying eyes.

Her phone’s already buzzing by the time she closes her door, texts directly from Yasha, and her heart instinctually leaps.

_Yasha: Tomorrow do you want me to pull right up to your house or somewhere nearby?_

Beau smiles softly, a rush of affection rising at the consideration.

_Beau: Park like a street away and text me where you’re at, it’ll make my life easier_

_Yasha: No problem._

Beau sighs and puts on her headphones, scrolling through her library and finding herself once again gravitating towards the same album, giving in and letting the familiar voice fill her ears. _At least I got you in my head._

She knows it’s probably a mistake to indulge the constant swirl of thoughts about Yasha with music, but she can’t help it. So she sits back and listens, lets the warmth of a distant fantasy fill her chest. Its peaceful. She sits on cloud nine. 

She conveniently forgets about reality for a few hours, until the sky gets dusky and she hears her name being called from downstairs. Dinner, of course, but there’s no reason that needs to dampen her mood.

She swings by the kitchen, intent to be in and out, but the hair on the back of her neck stands as soon as she walks in the dining room. Something is off, immediately, the energy is _wrong_. Her dad is sitting at the table, staring at her. Her mom walks out of the kitchen and stands in the doorway with the same intent glare. 

“Beauregard, we need to talk to you,” he starts, and she feels a shiver run down her spine. She puts on a brave face.

“What do you want?” She sighs, nose wrinkling in the start of a sneer. She watches his face harden.

“We’re worried about you’re future,” he says, all malice, “I _know_ you haven’t sent in any applications, so I’ve done you the favor of finding somewhere for you.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, voice shaking slightly, her shoulders tensing. The cocktail of anger and fear mixing in her head is making her eyes sting, the ancient instinct to cry, but she holds it back.

She notices, as he reaches for it, a piece of paper, some kind of pamphlet, resting on his lap. He holds it up and she sees in fine blue script, _‘The Cobalt Soul.’_

“They have a program for more _difficult_ kids,” he starts, and just as she starts to snap he raises his voice and covers her words, “You can get an education, job experience, and _discipline_.”

Beau laughs, in spite of herself. “You’re shipping me off? Really? _That’s_ what you’re doing?”

“You’ve given us no _choice_!” He stands up to his full height, eyes intense, and Beau keeps herself from flinching. “You’re sabotaging yourself at every turn, throwing away what I’ve given you, and I’m trying my best to let you make something of yourself!”

“Does it matter what I want?” Beau snaps, her fists clenched at her side. She looks past her father to her mother standing, stone-faced, in the doorway, and she lets the hint of pleading through in her face. It’s a long shot, but it’s all she has left.

“Listen to your father,” she says hollowly, “He knows what he’s talking about.”

Beau feels her heart drop.

“Beauregard,” her dad starts again, lowering his tone, trying some facsimile of comfort, “You can’t know what you want, you’re too young. You’ll see when you’re older that what you need is _exactly_ what I’ve been trying to give you.”

“Horseshit.”

He takes a deep breath, knuckles cracking as he clenches his fists, too. “There’s no arguing about this. Your going, after this school year is over, and that’s final.”

“You can’t fucking force me anywhere!” Beau says, her voice crawling to a yell, barely maintaining its pitch. 

“Where else are you going? You’re _not_ staying under my roof like this!” He takes a step forward, footsteps thunderous against the wooden floor, and Beau feels herself backed into a corner.

“I don’t need you for anything!” She sneers, stepping right up to him. She straightens her back, chin tilted to look up to his face, hard blue eyes staring unwavering into her own. “You can’t do whatever you want with me, I get to decide _my_ future!”

“You’re going to ruin yourself,” he says slowly, through clenched teeth.

“Then I’ll do it on my _own_.” She takes a step back, turning quickly as she feels the hint of a tear escaping the corners of her eyes. She storms out of the dining room, seething.

“Where are you going?” Her father calls, exasperated, trailing behind.

“Why do you fucking care!” She flings open the door and turns for one last glance. She sees angry eyes, uncaring, burning.

She slams the door with a crack that rings like thunder. Beau stomps down her driveway, the bitter air cold against her cheeks. She barely feels it, her skin burning hot with anger, and she bites back to urge to _scream_ into the street. 

She pulls out her phone, typing with quick fury into the groupchat.

_Beau: I’m going to that fucking party_  
Come if you wanna  
I know where it’s at  
Meet me at the corner near the park 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting a lil bit farther along in this bitch! Y'all know about the whole college thing, and that's expensive as shit! So I made a [Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/O5O7SE1J) where I'm doing writing commissions so I can do stuff like eat and buy my meds.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge shoutout to [Liza](https://softyasha.tumblr.com/) for being my beta!
> 
> Check out the [Deleted Scenes](http://scanbeau.tumblr.com/post/182662064282/sk8r-beau-deleted-scenes) post to see my gift for reaching 1000 kudos!


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